Old School (The Chaos AU, Part 15 The Romanov Stories Part 16)
by LindaO
Summary: When the Machine gives them the Number of a small-town teenager on vacation in NYC, Finch and Reese get caught in the most dangerous place in the world – between a stressed-out soccer mom and her child. When that soccer mom turns out to be a former agent who's still on the run nearly 20 years after she stole the CIA's most valuable asset, Finch and Reese find surprising new allies.
1. Chapter 1

Twelve hours after Finch and Reese returned from Las Vegas, the Machine gave them a new Number. A man was very angry about his ex-wife and her new boyfriend and planned to kill them both. Reese disarmed him with only a little difficulty, and threatened him convincingly enough that he requested a transfer from his company the next day and left town.

Before Reese had time to put on a clean shirt, a pay phone rang again.

And again.

And again.

"I suppose it's backlog," Finch said wearily, after their fourth Number in three days. "Threats that weren't processed while the Machine was fighting off Decima's virus."

Reese simply grunted and tried to sleep while he had the chance.

* * *

The aging blue minivan pulled stopped next to the booth. The driver, a woman past middle age, already had her window down as the border agent approached. She held out a stack of five Canadian passports.

He opened the first one and glanced at the photo, then at the driver. "Ms. Dawson?"

"Mrs. Yes."

He looked into the van. The girl in the passenger seat smiled happily at him. In the middle seats were two boys, a little older. He matched them all up, then held the last passport questioningly.

The woman glanced in her mirror, scowled, and twisted around. "Paul, wake up your sister."

The boy reached over his seat and waved around blindly. A teenage girl sat up, pulling her ear buds out impatiently. "What?"

"There she is," the driver told the gate agent. "Sorry."

"Just like my kids," he assured her. "Purpose of your visit?"

"Just vacation. Visiting relatives."

The girl in the front seat said, "I'm going to take fencing lessons."

"I see," the guard said. He raised an eyebrow at the driver again.

"It's a day camp," she explained. "She's going with her cousin. I figured it was better than video games 24/7."

He nodded. "Good luck with that. Anything to declare?"

The woman shook her head. "Just our clothes and personal items."

"Live animals? Produce?"

"No."

"Firearms? Liquor?"

"Nope."

There were five cars in the line now. He handed the passports back. "Welcome to the United States."

"Thank you."

He opened the gate.

* * *

The woman's knuckles were white in the steering wheel.

"Damn, Sarah, way to blow the script!" the older boy said.

"I didn't!" she protested.

"You totally did," her sister called from the far back seat.

"Mom. I didn't. Right?"

Her mother glanced over her shoulder, then changed lanes and accelerated. "Visiting your aunt and uncle, remember? Vague, no details?" Her voice was tight, her eyes hard on the road.

"But I adding thought details would add very– vera–"

"Verisimilitude," the younger of the boys said. "And you were supposed to stick to the damn script."

"That you didn't have any lines in," her older brother added.

"Michael," their mother said tightly. "Language."

"If we have to go home because she screwed this up …"

"I didn't do anything wrong!"

"All of you," the mother said firmly, "shut up. We're okay. Just hush. I need to concentrate."

The van fell silent for a moment. Then the smaller girl twisted around. "It's okay, you guys. It's okay."

"Sarah Rose, hush."

The woman focused intently on the road ahead, and then on the road behind. On vehicles that passed them and vehicles that stayed behind them. On overpasses and bridges. On the police car waiting on the side of the highway. On breathing.

She took one hand off the wheel and laid it flat on the center of her chest. There was usually a gem there, an emerald. But it was packed away, hidden under the carpet under the rear seat. Just in case.

She had worn the emerald for many years. She missed its weight and its warmth.

She ran her thumb over the ring on her left hand, smooth platinum with small bumps where the emeralds were inlaid. It wasn't the same, but it helped.

From the very back of the van, her oldest child said, "I have to pee."

"In a while," her mother snapped. She put both hands back on the wheel and her knuckles went white.

* * *

"I know you told me the Numbers never stop coming," John said, red-eyed and bleary three more Numbers later, "but this is ridiculous."

Finch looked at him through eyes that were even more bloodshot. "Even I could not have anticipated that so many people in the Greater New York area harbored such murderous intent."

He might have said more, but his cell phone chirped with an alert.

* * *

Samatha Groves, who very much preferred to be called Root, was bored.

Her captors brought her books, old paperbacks that had been thoroughly searched. They brought her paper and breakable markers. But they provided no television, no radio, and certainly no computer. Control or one of her flunkies came for a brief visit every day. A doctor came in to check her wound until it healed. Three times a week they let her go out to the courtyard for an hour, but there was nothing to do there except look at the sky and walk in circles.

On the days when she didn't go outside they let her shower in a barren little shower stall next to her cell. They provided carefully-measured plastic cups of shampoo and conditioner and soap, and a washcloth and towel of the same thin, tearable fabric that covered her bunk. They gave her a comb for her hair, but at least two guards watched her until they got it back. Apparently they thought even a cheap plastic comb could become a weapon in her hands.

They weren't wrong, of course.

The food was boring, served on paper plates with break-away utensils.

Root had created an exercise plan for herself and she went through some variation of it twice a day.

Beyond that, she was bored spitless.

She announced her boredom, loudly and repeatedly, to the cameras that always watched her.

The Machine, so far, had been unable to respond.

She never stopped watching and listening. But the longer there was no response, the more tedious her imprisonment became.

* * *

"That is one damn fat cat," Reese commented, looking over Finch's shoulder.

"Indeed." Finch tried to focus on the feline in the photo. The black and white housecat was sprawled on top of a stone wall in the sun. It was evening or morning, judging by the orange quality of the light. The cat had a white face with a black marking that looked like Charlie Chaplin's mustache. The feline appeared smugly content, as resting cats usually did.

More fascinating than the cat, however, was the tiny notation in the lower corner of the photo that indicated it had been taken with a cell phone on the previous day.

Of course, Harold had no guarantee that the picture had been taken by Christine Fitzgerald on her own phone. She might easily have scrumped it off some internet site. But he _was_ irrationally certain. This sprawling cat was something that Christine herself had seen during her day, something that she'd been amused enough to take a picture of.

Aside from the scant instructions, 'find a kitty', it was the first actual communication they'd received from her. The first detail from her vacation or retreat or sabbatical – or new life – that she'd shared.

It felt like the first tiny crack in the vast iceberg.

"Mr. Mustache," Reese said.

"What?"

"The cat. We should call him Mr. Mustache."

Harold turned very deliberately to stare at him. "Do we really need to assign a name to a creature who presumably resides on the other side of the planet?"

"No, we don't _need_ to," Reese agreed readily. "But we're going to anyhow."

"I … you … are really quite impossible, Mr. Reese."

John grinned in the way he reserved for when he'd managed to successfully provoke Harold. Then he flopped onto the couch, in another move that was characteristically John Reese.

Finch turned back to his screen, more amused than annoyed. Christine named hard drives. Reese named animals. Harold mostly only named himself.

It tickled at his brain, this photo. Not the cat itself, but the imprint. Because if the file held date information, it also likely carried geographical data. He could examine it, decode it, find out precisely where Christine was at this moment. It wasn't technically cheating on his promise that he would not attempt to keep her under surveillance, since she'd send him the photo without stripping out the data. She must have known …

… of course she'd known, and she'd sent it anyhow. She was either testing him …

… or trusting him to keep his word.

With great regret and greater resolve, Finch deleted the photo.

* * *

The woman moved through the house on bare feet, all but silent. Light leaked through windows from the yard, and tiny LEDs blinked at the windows, indicating that the alarms were armed. The air conditioner hummed softly. A tiny breeze pulled at her cotton nightgown. Beyond the walls, she could hear distant traffic, thin now in the pre-dawn darkness.

A child snored softly, down the hall.

No sound had alerted her; no footfall had woken her. Downstairs, two well-trained Rottweilers had not stirred. There was no one in the house that they did not know. No one close by or trying to gain entry.

Yet she glided silently through the halls, with a long dagger in her hand.

This was New York, the heart of enemy territory, and she did not sleep well or long.

She reached up with her free hand and touched the emerald that hung around her neck. It was warm, as always. Solid.

A bed creaked softly behind her. She froze, the blade low and easy at her side. Covers pushed back with a quiet rustle. Feet touched the floor, and the bed creaked again. Then nothing.

"It's alright, Michael," she called. "It's just me."

Another creak, footsteps on the bare floor, and then the boy came out of his room. He glanced at the knife, then moved close to her free side. "What's wrong?" he asked quietly.

"Nothing. All secure. Go back to bed."

"Are _you_ going back to bed?"

She sighed, very softly. Her children were too well-trained, too observant. They knew how often she walked the floors at night, at home and now here. They worried, and talked among themselves when they thought she couldn't hear. If she sent her son back to bed, she was quite certain he would lie awake and listen to her not sleep. "Not just yet," she admitted.

"I'm kinda hungry. Could we get a snack?"

 _Go back to bed,_ she wanted to say. _Go back to sleep. Trust that nothing will harm you here. Let me be alone in my restlessness. Don't worry._

 _Don't let me hurt you with my pain._

But she had surrendered her right to grieve alone when she'd agreed to have a family. She couldn't have shut him out even if she wanted to. "There might be ice cream," she allowed.

He leaned against her. He was twelve, too big to let himself be hugged when someone might see, but it was just the two of them; he put his arm around her waist, let her put her around his shoulders.

They went downstairs together. The dogs lifted their heads, wagged their stumpy tails, but did not bother to get up.

All was safe in the house.

* * *

They had a period of eighteen hours without a new Number.

"Remember when we worried that we'd never get another Number?" Reese said. He felt better, after a whole night's sleep, a real meal, and a short run.

Finch busied himself hanging up their freshly-pressed suits in the back room. He'd finally had time to pick up the dry cleaning. "I do seem to remember such a conversation," he admitted. "But it's a vague memory at best."

His phone chirped.

* * *

"Mr. Reese?"

"I'm here, Finch."

"Todd Bradley is dead."

Reese paused, his shirt half-unbuttoned. "What?"

Todd Bradley had owed his bookie seven thousand dollars. That amount wasn't usually large enough to provoke a hit contract, but Bradley was a rude, entitled and brash young man. Reese had only met him once and he fully understood the bookmaker's desire to have him killed. Nevertheless, Finch had provided the cash to clear his debt and signed Bradley up for Gamblers Anonymous, and Reese had made it very clear to Big Al Restifo that he would not look kindly on any harm coming to Bradley. Restifo was a businessman; he was perfectly willing to accept the money, call off the hit, and agree not to take Bradley's bets any more. That should have settled the matter.

That had only been two hours before.

"What happened?" Reese demanded.

His partner sounded more weary than saddened. "Apparently Mr. Bradley felt emboldened by our intervention. He believed that his luck was turning. So he decided to press that luck by taking a firearm to Mr. Restifo's place of business and attempting to steal all the cash on the premises."

John shook his head. He'd seen the bookie's security. A punk like Bradley hadn't stood a chance. "We can't save people from their own bad choices."

"Indeed." Finch sighed audibly. "I'll send the details of our investigation to detective Fusco. He's due for an easy case."

"Call me when we get a new Number."

There was a very brief pause. "About that, Mr. Reese …"

John rolled his eyes. The little pause was all he'd needed to hear. They already _had_ a new Number. "Let me change my shirt."

* * *

Helen Zane sat in the second row of the little classroom, in the seat furthest from the door, half turned in her seat. It gave her a good view of the doorway and the windows.

Eleven other teenagers milled around the room. Five male. Six female. She made quick mental notes about each of them. Two of the girls were clearly friends; they moved in unison, like partners. One of the boys fancied himself a rebel; his dyed black hair fell in a long swoop over his left eye. Helen's mother would have taken a scissors to it on the spot. She guessed that it concealed a major acne problem.

A very pretty blonde girl came in, and then an older man. Helen knew the man was the instructor, Jeff Kozlow. There was a younger man behind him; from their facial structure, she guessed they were brothers, or at least closely related.

"Hi," the blonde said, flopping into the seat in front of her. "I'm Hailey."

"Helen. Hi."

"Did I miss anything?" Hailey put her phone on the desk, checked its screen.

"Nope, they just got here."

Kozlow unpacked his satchel on the front desk; the younger man leaned against a second desk, looking around. "He's hella hot," Hailey said quietly.

"The younger one?" Helen asked, barely moving her mouth.

"Yeah."

He was, the girl agreed. The instructor was, well, thirty, but the younger man was in his teens. Maybe twenty. He had good cheekbones. His nose had been broken once; it had a little bend in the center. His eyes were big and brown, and his hair was probably brown in the winter, but it was streaked with light now that went really well with his tan.

He had nice wide shoulders.

He caught the girls checking him out and smiled at them. Hailey giggled. Helen smiled back, just a little warmer than _polite_ , and looked out the window again.

"Good morning, Campers!" Jeff Kozlow said. "Welcome to No-Filter Summer Photo Safari. My name is Jeff and I'm your tour guide. This is my brother Dylan. He'll be helping us. Everybody in the right place?"

"Oh, hells yeah," Hailey murmured.

Dylan glanced over at them and smiled again.

Helen grinned. _Mother would not approve._ But there was nothing wrong with enjoying the scenery, as long as she didn't try to take any of it home with her. It was going to be a fun summer.

Hailey said, "Damn it, where did I put my phone?"


	2. Chapter 2

"Mr. Mustache," Finch declared solemnly, "is a mother."

He and Reese stared at the newest photo from their absent friend. The black and white cat with the mustache-marked face was lying on her side. An impressive assortment of tiny kittens nursed at her belly.

" _Mrs_. Mustache," Reese amended gravely. "Guess she wasn't really fat, either." He gave a tip of his pretend hat toward the screen. "Sorry, Ma'am."

"I just hope Christine doesn't try to bring them all home," Finch said grimly.

* * *

They lost the next Number as well. Adam Wyck had been jailed several times for domestic abuse and aggravating menacing. But when he learned that the woman he'd been stalking had become so frightened that she'd paid her cousin to kill him, and when he'd been told by Reese in no uncertain terms that his life would end if he went near her again, he'd fallen into deep remorse and taken his own life.

At least, the note he'd left on the bridge said it was remorse.

Carter's eyes flashed with anger as she handed Reese the note in an evidence bag. "Son of a bitch blamed _her_. He said she just misunderstood his devotion. That if she'd just given him a chance, they could have been happy."

John's mouth tightened into a thin line as he read the note. "He wants whoever finds the note to make sure she gets his final message."

The detective took the baggie back. "That's not going to happen."

"Good." He spun and strode away past the morgue workers who were removing the body. "Finch?"

"We gave him a second chance," Finch said immediately. "The fact that he decided to throw it away – that's not our problem."

"We gave _her_ a second chance," Reese countered. The victim was dead, but the perpetrator hadn't killed him. The relatively innocent young woman he'd been stalking didn't have a murder on her conscience. "That's what matters."

"I agree," Finch pronounced. "Get some rest."

* * *

"Owwwww, shit!" Hailey said loudly. She clapped her hand onto her forehead.

Helen laughed. "Rub your tongue against the roof of your mouth."

"Dotsh shat work for brain freesshhz?"

"No, it just makes you talk funny."

"Bitch!"

"Ladies," Dylan said warmly, "is there a problem?"

Hailey waived her half-empty cup of blue slush. "Brain freeze!"

"A tragic first-world problem," he intoned solemnly. "Try biting the tip of your tongue."

Hailey did, then squealed again. "Ow, shit!"

"I didn't tell you to bite _hard_." He sat down next to her.

"Bitch!"

"She calls everybody that," Helen told him. "It's a term of endearment."

"I see." Dylan gestured to her cup of pink ground ice. "You don't get brain freeze?"

"No. I'm immune."

"She's from Canada," Hailey said. "They're used to frozen things."

"Are you really? I didn't realize. I thought everybody was from here in town."

"We're staying at my aunt's house for the summer," Helen explained. She realized she was talking too fast and made herself slow down. "We do every year. Signing up for this," she gesture to her camera, "was way better than sitting around the pool with my brothers all summer."

"You have a pool?" Hailey asked eagerly. "Can I come over?"

"Sure," Helen agreed. She made herself smile. _Right after my mom runs a level-one background check on you and everyone in your household._

"Can _I_ come over?" Dylan teased.

Helen smiled uneasily. "Sure." _Mom won't bother with the background check on you. She'll just have my uncle drown you._

"Cool. I'll pack my Speedo."

Both girls groaned.

"Hey, hey," he protested, laughed. "I happen to fill a Speedo very nicely, thank you."

"Do you, like, manscape?" Hailey teased back. "Cause I just cannot deal with man-hair hanging out all over the place."

"Well, you might have to help me shave my back then."

Hailey squealed.

"I'll see if I can lay in some Nair," Helen promised.

"Better get a case. I'm kind of like a werewolf. Seriously shaggy."

"Oooooh, gross!" Hailey said.

"But I'm sure the three of us together can …"

"Dylan!" his brother called. "Do you have all the cameras checked in?"

The younger man scowled. "He doesn't like me to talk about our werewolf daddy," he told the girls quietly. "Coming, Matt!" He stood up and collected their cameras. "Ladies."

"Wolfman," Helen returned. He moved on to collect the other cameras.

When he was out of earshot, Hailey leaned in close. "I don't care how hairy he is. That boy is hot!"

"He may be hot," Helen returned, "but you're a felony."

"Me? You're the one he's crushing on."

"No, he's not."

"He totally is."

"He's after you."

"Maybe he's after both of us, like he said."

"Maybe he'll take whatever he can get."

Hailey nodded seriously. "The two of us together aren't underage, right?"

"I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that way."

"Too bad." Hailey took a long pull on her straw, sucking in blue slush. Then she screamed and grabbed her forehead again.

* * *

"There's a man on the corner in a dark blue jacket," Finch said in his ear.

Reese nodded to himself. "I see him. What's his story?"

"He works for Skydd Security Services. He'll be watching Mr. Mages for the rest of the night."

John's eyes narrowed. "We get another Number, Finch?"

"Not yet, but we will. We know that Mr. Mages is unlikely to leave his house again tonight. You've been awake for thirty-six hours, Mr. Reese. Go home and get some sleep."

"I'm fine, Finch."

"John."

Reese considered for a long moment. He wanted to argue more. But his partner was right on both counts: a Skydd employee should be more than adequate for the task of watching Mages sleep, and he was exhausted. "There's a hotel down the block," he finally compromised. "I'll get a room."

"As you wish."

"You should get some sleep, too, Finch."

"Of course. I just have a few …"

"Harold."

There was a pause while Finch argued internally, too. "I've bluejacked our contractor's phone. I'll alert you if there's any difficulty."

"Then turn up the volume and get some sleep."

"I will."

John sighed. The big leather couch in the library was comfortable enough for naps, but he hoped Finch would use the actual bed in the breakroom. It was better for his injuries to sleep in a real bed with real pillows. Still, there wasn't much point in pushing his stubborn partner. It was enough that he'd agreed to sleep.

He watched the Skydd operative for a minute. The man was settled, comfortable. Alert but not tense. On watch without exhausting himself. He was clearly ex-military. Reese could tell by his posture.

He would be thoroughly vetted, of course, and highly skilled.

John undeniably needed to sleep. And Mages was in for the night.

Reese watched a moment more, then headed to the hotel.

* * *

Finch hired Skydd operatives on four more cases. In each instance he asked the hired help to keep watch overnight. On the last one, the man noted suspicious activity around the house at four in the morning and called the police. Reese was nearby and arrived just ahead of the first squad car, but did not need to intervene: the police arrested the perpetrators as they attempted to break into the victim's house.

* * *

Mira Dobrica had dinner at her desk and then stayed late, looking over the stack of resumes. They'd advertised for two housekeepers and a night desk clerk, andreceived over two hundred applications. She wanted to hire the best people for the Coronet, of course, but she couldn't help reading between the lines of so many of the forms: people were desperate for work, any work. Most of them were probably good, honest people who just needed a chance. Mira had been there herself once …

She hardened her heart as well as she could and focused on experience and qualifications.

When she had reduced the stack to the best possibilities – twelve housekeepers, five desk clerks – she finally stood up and turned her desk light out. She would set up interviews in the morning.

Mira was exhausted, but she never went up to her suite without checking the hotel first. She took a quick glance at the upcoming event schedule. Some large meetings, two wedding receptions, one bar mitzvah. She would check with catering the next day, but everything looked to be in order. She left her office and went to the kitchen. None of the guests currently had any orders in; the night chef and one server were baking pastries for morning. The laundry attendants were working on sheets and towels, steadily but unhurried. The bar was half-full; the two bartenders were keeping up nicely and had everything they needed. The front desk was quiet. In the small office behind the desk, the night auditor reported no problems. A few guests passed through the lobby, coming in from the theatre. All was in good order.

Mira was almost to the elevators before she noticed the woman.

She was an older woman with a rather unbecoming haircut, dressed in tailored slacks and a loose blouse, flat shoes and a very small bag with a cross-body strap. Mira was very good at sizing people up, but she could not tell if this was a wealthy woman out for a casual stroll or a tourist or something else entirely.

The woman wasn't doing anything remarkable. She simply moved through the lobby, looking up at the architecture. There was something about her gaze, something intent and alert, but the woman didn't seem precisely anxious. She settled onto one of the couches, as if she was waiting.

Mira walked quietly to the front desk. "How long has she been here?" she asked, her head down over random papers.

"Ten minutes," the clerk answered. "I asked if I could help her with something, but she said she was just looking around."

"Hmmm."

The woman glanced around again. Then she stood up.

Mira walked over to her. "Hello," she said warmly.

The woman's eyes ran up and down over her swiftly, and her posture shifted. Mira knew suddenly what the woman reminded her of: Every military officer she'd ever met. The woman had decided, just that fast, that she was not dangerous. Unexpectedly, Mira felt relief.

Around her neck, under her casual clothes, the woman wore an emerald pendant the size of her thumbnail. Mira didn't know much about jewels, but this one looked very expensive.

She wore a wedding ring, too, Mira noted, a platinum band set with emeralds, too. It wasn't shiny; it looked well-worn.

"Hello," the woman said.

"I'm Mira Dobrica." She offered her hand. "I'm the general manager."

The woman shook her hand lightly. "Elizabeth Zane. I'm sorry, I don't mean to make everyone anxious."

"You're not," Mira assured her. "We're just very service-oriented. Is there anything at all I can do for you?"

"No. Thank you." She hesitated. "My husband and I spent a weekend here together. A long time ago. I just wanted to see it again, I suppose."

"We're under new ownership," Mira said. "But we've kept everything pretty much the same. I could show you around, if you like."

The woman shook her head. "Thank you, but I'm fine. I hardly even remember the lobby. We spent most of our time in the penthouse."

Mira felt her cheeks get warm. "It is a lovely penthouse."

"We brought snowcones," the woman said wistfully. She caught herself, smiled. "Sorry. TMI, as my kids would say."

"I'm very glad you enjoyed your stay," Mira chuckled.

The woman studied her. "You're Albanian, aren't you?"

The general manager stared at her, startled. "I … yes. My accent, yes."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"No, it's not a problem, it's just … most people hear me and guess German or something, Central Europe somewhere. You're very specific. You've spent time there?"

The woman's eyes were dark with grief. "Too much time. Did you get out before the war?"

Mira blinked. Americans, in her experience, barely knew about the war in the former Yugoslavia, much less understood the waves of people who had fled from it. And why. "No," she admitted. "Just after."

"I'm so sorry."

 _Oh, she knows_. Mira could see it. This woman, this stranger, somehow knew everything about what had happened in her homeland. Every hardship, every horror. _This woman knows_. She reached out and touched her arm, surprising both of them. But the woman didn't pull back; she covered her hand with her own. "It was a long time ago," Mira managed to say.

The woman looked around again. "You're the general manager."

"Yes."

"You're doing well, then."

"Very well."

"Are you happy here?"

"Yes. Oh, yes."

The woman looked into her eyes, patted her hand. "I'm glad." Then she pulled away from her touch.

"Are you … the, um … the penthouse is unoccupied at the moment, if you'd like to see it …"

The woman smiled tightly. Her hand wrapped around the emerald pendant she wore. "No. Thank you."

Mira understood that, too, suddenly. "How long ago did you lose him?"

"Two years, in September."

"I am so sorry."

The woman's eyes filled with tears. Her mouth tightened into a thin line. Then she inhaled sharply and seemed to shake it off. "I'm glad you've found a new life here. Thank you."

She turned and walked out the front door as if she owned the place.

Mira walked back to the desk. The night auditor had come out of the back office. He was staring toward the door. "Is there a problem, Peter?"

He started, then held out a clipboard. "I just thought I'd get your signature on this, since you're still here."

"Of course." She examined the form, a straightforward tax exemption waiver, then signed it. She gestured. "Do you know her?"

"That woman? No." He shook his head emphatically. "She's not a guest, is she?"

"Just a visitor." Mira smiled gently. "She and her late husband had a …" she paused, blushing, "a get-away weekend here once, many years ago."

"Oh. I see."

"Is everything okay, Pjer?" Mira asked softly.

He smiled briefly, uncomfortably, as he always did when she used his real name. Mira understood. Many immigrants – refugees – from her home country preferred to embrace their new home entirely, Anglicizing their names and re-learning their accents as fast as they could. It was easier to look forward than back. Pjer Prifti was older than her. He'd been the CFO of a major corporation before the war. Now he was a night auditor. But he did not complain. He did his job accurately and reliably, and if he didn't socialize with his co-workers much, well, that wasn't a requirement of the job. Mira respected his desire to just be left alone.

"Fine." He glanced at his watch. "You should have been gone hours ago."

"I know. I'm going. Nothing else you need?"

"No," he assured her. "Everything's fine. Just fine."

There was an odd little hitch in his voice, but the man moved back to his little office without further comment. She would follow up tomorrow, Mira decided. But she doubted the man would want to talk. He never did.


	3. Chapter 3

On the Fourth of July, shortly before noon, John Reese got shot.

The bullet grazed the outside of his left thigh just above the knee. It took away some skin and maybe a bit of muscle, but it was minor. "This should probably be stitched by a doctor," Finch complained in the library.

"The ER will be packed today," Reese argued. "Besides, you do such nice work."

Harold grumbled, but he got his suture kit. "I have lidocaine spray," he offered.

"Sure." Normally Reese would have refused on principle. But he hated the way Harold flinched with every stitch, as if the needle was going into his own flesh instead of John's.

Christine's acupuncture needles were better. But she was an ocean away now. Pain relief in a spray can would have to do.

"I hope you're not still planning to attend the fireworks tonight," Harold fussed as he set out the supplies.

John shrugged. "I'll see how it feels later."

They were silent for a time. Smokey, the huge gray cat who had been a newborn kitten when Reese and Bear found her, came and sat on Reese's good leg to watch the proceedings. "You're not helping," Finch told her.

Reese stroked the cat thoughtfully. "Christine hates fireworks."

"Do you blame her?"

"No." John tried to remember exactly what she'd said on that subject. Something about big crowds and overhead explosions. She'd been close to Ground Zero on 9/11. She would never enjoy fireworks again. "They don't bother you, Finch?"

"I was in an office with no windows. I didn't learn about it until that evening."

"Right. I forgot."

Finch cocked one eyebrow. He knew perfectly well that Reese hadn't forgotten. John shrugged, then winced as Harold tugged a stitch tight.

"When I was a boy," Finch said unexpectedly, "our town set off fireworks at the football field. My friends and I would sit on the fence at the back of my yard, and every time there was a really loud blast we'd clutch our chests and fall dramatically to the ground. Pretending we'd been shot." He shook his head over John's fresh gunshot wound. "It was great fun," he added sadly.

"I played the same game," Reese assured him.

"And here we are."

"Here we are."

Finch snipped the ends off the last stitch and sat back. "That should hold."

Reese glanced down. "Looks good, Finch."

Harold slathered some antibiotic cream over the area, then applied a gauze pad.

"Do you think she'll come back now?" Reese asked quietly. "Christine? After the fireworks are over?"

Finch's hands hesitated. Then he reached for the tape. "I'll admit that I had the same thought, Mr. Reese. She has always made a point of being out of the country on this particular day." He finished the bandage and began to pack up the first aid supplies. "I simply don't know."

"Maybe we should just call and ask her."

Harold looked at him. His face was thoughtful, indecisive. "It's tempting. But …"

"She'll say yes," Reese completed. "Whether she's ready or not."

"Yes."

John ran his hands through his hair. "We could use the help."

"I would be reluctant to involve her any further in our endeavors," Finch answered. "Of course, my reluctance would almost certainly be entirely disregarded."

"Entirely."

Harold stood and gathered the refuse from the minor operation. "I'm supposed to have lunch with Will and Julie."

"Again?"

"For the first time. Last week I had to reschedule," Finch reminded him. " _And_ the week before."

"I missed that," Reese admitted.

"I don't expect you to keep up with my social calendar, Mr. Reese."

"I probably couldn't if I tried."

Finch picked up Reese's suit pants. He examined the tear in the leg critically. "These are not salvageable," he pronounced.

"You could cut them off and make me dress shorts."

Harold regarded him with some amusement. "I think not. Get some rest, Mr. Reese."

"Have a good lunch, Harold."

* * *

Samantha Groves cocked her head and listened intently. No, she wasn't imagining things. Somewhere beyond the thick walls of her prison, there were explosions. Artillery was being fired. The compound was under attack.

Only she didn't hear any panicked voices. No shouting or running. No cell doors opening or slamming. No vehicles squealing away. No phones ringing. There was no sign that anyone was concerned.

That was disappointing.

At her window she saw flashes of light that interrupted the darkness of the night sky.

The bombardment continued, at irregular but very brief intervals. It got no closer. The building barely vibrated under it, so it wasn't taking any direct hits. Or else the compound was much larger than she thought.

She considered asking the camera what was going on. It would be informative to see how long it took them to respond, and whether their voices betrayed any concern.

After several minutes of observation, Root realized that some of the flashes of light were blue and green, mixed in with more common orange, yellow, red and white.

It took her a few more minutes to realize that it must be Independence Day.

She grinned, pleased that she hadn't made a fool or herself or betrayed that she didn't know what day it was. Plus this gave her a certain calendar date. She could keep track going forward.

That was something.

She flopped down on her bunk and enjoyed her little glimpses of the light show.

After another ten or so minutes, the fireworks finale began. The explosions were much more frequent, the lights at her window much brighter. It built to a very loud extended explosion. And then it was over.

Root picked up her comb and ran it through her hair. She examined the ends critically. Her natural curl remained, but her split ends seriously needed a trim.

One of the strands was definitely silver.

Root frowned fiercely. She rubbed her fingers together, releasing strands of hair until she held only the offending silver one. Then she wrapped it around her fingertip and yanked it out.

She moved over to the window to examine the strand better in the light. She still wasn't certain. It couldn't be gray, could it? She moved to the mirror over her sink, but it was only polished stainless and gave her a terrible reflection.

She ran her hands up into her hair again and pulled a lock in front of her face. She didn't see any more silver strands. But she kept looking for more than an hour, just to be sure.

* * *

"How's your leg, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked the next morning.

"I'll get by," Reese answered curtly. "What's our Number's story?"

"Mr. Repczinski has contacted a person on Craig's List with the intent of purchasing an unregistered handgun."

"Who's he planning to kill?" Reese looked at the photo on his phone, then scanned the area. He didn't see him yet. He leaned against the corner of the building and eased the weight off his leg. The bullet wound hurt. About a five out of ten. It itched a little, too. But it wouldn't slow him down.

"I don't know." Over the comm, Reese could hear the comforting click of his partner's keyboard. "I suppose that his purchase of the weapon was what triggered our warning. I'm looking into his background now, but I'm not seeing anything obvious."

"Any lead on the seller?"

"According to our friends at the NYPD, TheDeliveryMan is an actual delivery man in real life. He's a UPS driver named Ronald Reins, and he's suspect in a number of smuggling cases."

Reese turned his head casually and looked at the trademark brown truck parked at the curb. "Got a picture of him?"

"On its way."

John glanced at the photo, then back at the truck. The driver was not in sight. He pushed away from the wall and walked across the street. He paused next to the vehicle and looked around. He guessed that even while he was running a side job, the driver wouldn't be far from the truck.

He spotted him at the counter of the corner shop, buying cigarettes. Reese waited outside the door. When the driver came out, he said, casually, "Got a smoke?"

"No, man." The man tried to brush past him.

Reese took his arm firmly. "You've got a smoke," he said. "You should give me one."

"Get off me!" He tried to swing at Reese with his free hand. That cleared his belt enough for John to grab the cheap gun he had tucked into his waistband.

He brought it up between the bodies and aimed it at the driver's chin. "Pretty sure this wasn't on your delivery route."

The driver jerked away from him. "It's not loaded," he sneered.

Reese used his free hand to draw his own weapon. "This one is."

The driver looked up and down the street, then retreated a couple steps into a doorway. "What the fuck do you _want_ , man?"

"I want you to stop selling unregistered firearms in my city. _Man_."

"Mind your own business."

Reese twitched his jacket back to reveal Detective Still's badge. "It is my business."

The delivery driver went pale. "Shit, man."

"Here's how this works," Reese said quietly. "You're going to get in your truck and go back to work. If you ever try to sell an unregistered weapon again – and believe me, I'll know it's you, whatever handle you use – you will lose your job and you will go to jail. Clear?"

"Clear."

"Go."

The driver scampered away.

Reese tucked both weapons away under his jacket.

"Well," Finch said in his ear, "that's part of the problem solved."

"Part of it," Reese agreed. He leaned back and waited.

* * *

"Would you look at that," Fusco said.

"What?" Carter answered.

He gestured. "There was actually a desk under all that paperwork."

She grinned. They'd had a nice quiet week, and both of them had gotten a ton of paperwork done. They'd even gotten to take the Fourth off without interruption. They'd also had time to close three old cases. She had a pretty good idea she had the Machine to thank for the lack of homicides. She was glad to take the help.

Although – a nice meaty case would have kept her mind off of other things…

"Here," she said, picking up two files. "Since you're part of the clean desk club now, you can finish these two."

Fusco scowled. But he came and took them. That left Carter with only three. "We need to slow down a little," he muttered.

"We can always go interview witnesses," Carter reminded him.

"What, like out at Coney Island?"

"Must be some movies we want to see."

"Why, Detective Carter, I'm shocked at that suggestion. I do believe I'm corrupting you."

"Well, you can't take all the credit. Our _friends_ are helping, too."

"I hear that." Fusco sat back down at his desk and opened the top file.

Behind him, Simmons glided over to the coffee pot like the snake he was. Carter frowned. One more week and the hammer would fall on that snake and all his co-conspirators. It was already in the works; Moss was keeping her in the loop.

"You know what I'm thinking?" Carter said, with forced cheerfulness. "I'm thinking once I get caught up, I'm going to take a vacation."

Fusco blinked at her. "A what?"

"A vacation," she repeated. "You know, that thing where you don't come to work for a week at a time? Where you go lay on a beach and drink little umbrella drinks?"

"Oh, yeah. I've heard about those. Always figured they were just fairy tales." He shook his head. "I would have pegged you more for tequila shots than umbrella drinks."

"Umbrella drinks for breakfast," Carter amended. "You know, with fruit juice."

"Right, right. Of course." He nodded seriously. "You should, Joss. You deserve it."

"I'll think about it."

"Well, don't think too long," her partner advised. "Cause this clean-desk thing? We both know it ain't gonna last."

"You got that right."

The phone on her desk rang, and the detectives groaned in unison.

* * *

Repczinski showed up ten minutes after Reese chased his weapons dealer away. He stood on the sidewalk uncertainly, looking around. Uncomfortable. Lost. He kept one hand in his jacket pocket. That was where he kept his money.

John sidled up behind him. "You looking for the delivery man?" he asked.

The other man spun. "Is that you? Are you him?"

"Obviously."

"I thought you'd be …"

"Wearing brown? Not really my style." He took the man's elbow. "Let's walk."

"Uh … yeah. I never … um … how do we do this?"

"You never bought a gun before?"

Repczinski flushed. "No."

"Good." Reese steered the man to his car. "Get in."

"What? Why?"

John pulled his jacket back to flash his stolen badge. "Because I said so."

"Oh, man." Repczinski crumpled into the front seat. He looked absolutely defeated. "Oh, man."

Reese walked around to the driver's side and got in. As he started the car, he said, "Tell me why you need a gun."

"Are you going to arrest me?"

"Should I?"

"I … please. I can't go to jail. There's nobody to bail me out. And if I … I'll lose my job. Please. I know I broke the law, I was breaking it, but I can't … oh, man, _please_."

"Why do you need a gun?" Reese repeated.

Repczinski went silent.

At the stop light, John said, "It's your choice, Repczinski. I can turn left and take you to the station and book you. I can turn right and drive you home. You talk, we go right."

The man thought about it until the light changed. "My landlord," he blurted.

Reese turned right. "You're going to kill your landlord."

"No. What? No. I would never … I couldn't. I just … I need to threaten him. Scare him. That's all. I told you … I told the delivery man guy. I don't even need any bullets. Just the gun. So he'll take me seriously."

"He jacking up your rent?"

"He won't fix my air conditioner."

Reese raised an eyebrow. He heard Finch snort in his ear.

"It's not that hot," John said dryly.

"It's not the heat. It's the humidity." Repczinski shook his head. "Not for you or me, it's not too bad. But my daughter. She has asthma. It's already July. You know what it can get like here. They're predicting a heat wave by next weekend. She won't be able to breathe. She's …" He cupped one hand over his mouth and panted into it. "Like that. We went through it last summer. She ended up in the hospital three times. She gets so scared there. She's only four, she doesn't understand. She just wants to go home. And she could, if he'd just fix the A/C …" He stopped, dropped his chin to his chest.

"You need your landlord to fix your air conditioning so your young daughter doesn't get sick," Reese restated.

"I know," Repczinski said miserably. "I know buying a gun was a stupid idea."

"You try talking to him? The landlord?"

"Lots of times. Wrote him letters. Called the city. And that _I'll Help You_ guy on the news. Tried everything I can think of." He shook his head. "They said by next weekend it could be over ninety. I couldn't wait any more."

John nodded.

"I know it was stupid," he said again. "I just don't know what else to do."

"Well," Reese said. "Maybe I could have a talk with him."

Repczinski looked at him. "You'd do that?"

"It would be my pleasure," John said with dark warmth.

* * *

Azarov Gusev sat in the back booth of the diner, picking at a massive platter of Salisbury steak and gravy over mashed potatoes. The gravy was too salty. He sipped his wine. It was too sweet. Or maybe just the gravy made it seem that way.

A small dark-haired man came through the front door and looked around. His rat-like face was wrinkled with age. His suit was cheap. Gusev raised one hand and gestured. The man started his way.

Three booths away, Misha stood up and blocked his path. The man started to protest, but looked up at the towering bodyguard and thought better of it. Misha patted him down, then turned and gestured him back to the table.

"You Black?" Gusev asked as the little man sat down.

"Yes," he snarled.

"That's a lie." Gusev took another big bite and chewed thoughtfully.

"Of course it is. You think I'm a fool?"

"Probably." Gusev chuckled. His contact had told him this little man was a pain in the ass, but a legitimate client. Otherwise he wouldn't have gotten through the front door. "You said you had a business proposition for me, Mr. Not Black."

"I want to kill someone."

The mobster dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Twenty-five large. That gets you a nice professional hit that looks like an accident. Or it can look deliberate, if you wish to send a message. Your choice."

The rat-faced man shook his head. "You misheard me. _I_ want to kill someone."

"Personally."

"Yes."

"I see. Some random person, for the thrill of it? Or did you have someone special in mind?"

"Oh, someone special. Someone very special."

"Mmmm." Gusev shook his head. "Personal murders, they're a bad idea. Emotions get involved, amateurs such as yourself are likely to make mistakes …"

"I am _not_ am amateur," Black snarled. "I was killing people when your father was still shoveling shit in Ukraine."

"Then what do you need me for?"

"I need your resources. Your men, your weapons, perhaps a safe house."

Gusev took another bite and considered. "I don't think so, Mr. Black. I don't know you and I don't trust you. It sounds as if you're seeking someone to take the fall for your crime."

"It would be very profitable for you."

"You don't have the resources to make it worth the risk."

"I don't," Black agreed, "but my target does."

The mob boss made a dismissive gesture. "We're done here."

"Listen. Just listen." The little man leaned far over the table. "I know that Yogorov being in jail has screwed your revenue stream. The corrupt police, HR, they've been crippled and cannot help you. I know that you're behind on your payments to the home organization. You don't have much time to make that right."

Gusev looked around. None of his men were close enough to hear what the rat man had just said. "You shut up," he snarled softly. His accent grew heavier with his rage. "You know nothing."

"I know _everything_ , Yuri. I know more than your own lieutenants do. And I can help you."

"You have a million dollars?"

"I have something better."

"I am sure there is nothing better."

"I have information," Black said. "Information that can be used to coerce some very important people in the U.S. government."

"I do not care about politics."

"No. But your people in Moscow do. You give them what I've got, they're likely to forget all about the money you owe them."

Gusev scowled, unconvinced. "Who are these important people?"

The little man reached into his jacket pocket. Gusev glanced sharply at Misha, but of course his bodyguard already had his weapon in his hand. Black slowly drew a folded note out and handed it across the table.

Gusev glanced over the list. Some of the names were familiar. Most were not. "I don't know these people."

"Moscow will," Black said confidently. "You run it by them. Then call me."

"And in exchange for this information …"

"You'll get me the person I want to kill."

"I don't trust you." Gusev tapped the paper against his knuckles.

"I don't trust you, either," the rat-man snarled. "But that doesn't mean we can't work together."

He stood up and walked out of the diner.

Misha watched him out, then came over to the booth. "Boss?"

"I'm not sure," Gusev answered. He glanced at the list again, then tucked it into his pocket and glanced at his watch. "I'll need to make a phone call this evening."

He waved the man away and picked up his fork.


	4. Chapter 4

Reese was polite, and very, very firm. The landlord agreed to complete the necessary repairs within twenty-four hours. John told him that he'd be back, in person, to check.

Repczinski shook Reese's hand, and the daughter – small, pale, very blonde – gave him a cookie that she'd frosted herself, with only a little help from her mother.

Reese sauntered back down to his car, licking frosting off his fingers. He tapped his earpiece. "Finch?"

"Nicely done, Mr. Reese. All kneecaps left intact, I presume?"

"For the moment. If that A/C's not fixed by tomorrow that could change. Anything on deck?"

Finch hesitated. "I … would you mind joining me? I'm in the building across from the Coronet. Suite 480."

"Sure thing." Reese started the car. "What's up at the hotel? New Number?"

"No." There was a second pause. "It's nothing, really." His voice changed; Reese could tell he'd straightened up. "On second thought, Mr. Reese, you should go home and get some rest. I'm sure your leg must be bothering you, and we're almost certain to get another Number soon."

"Finch, what's going on?"

The third pause was even longer. "You really don't need to bother, Mr. Reese. It's just a … a personal matter. I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"I'll be there," Reese said firmly.

He expected Finch to keep pushing back. Instead, he answered in a rather subdued voice, "Perhaps we could get some dinner after. If there's time."

"Good. On my way." Reese clicked off the comm before Harold could change his mind again.

 _A personal matter_ , he mused as he ran a red light. Even now, Finch rarely invited him to share in personal matters. He was less secretive than he'd been in their early days, but he still wasn't outgoing or particularly inclusive.

He didn't want to meet Reese in the Coronet Hotel itself, but across the street from it. Interesting.

Finch had had lunch with what constituted his family the day before. This personal matter probably had something to do with Will Ingram. They hadn't officially been informed yet, but Reese assumed, as Finch did, that Ingram's wife Julie was pregnant with their first child. If there was a problem with the baby, Finch would have told him over the phone. On the other hand, if there was a problem with the _marriage_ and Ingram had taken up residence at the hotel … that might be something Finch would ask John to help intervene with. Maybe.

If the couple was in danger again …

John shook his head impatiently. He could speculate all day. Or he could just get there.

He gunned the sedan through another red light.

* * *

Kozlow took his campers to Battery Park. While they took long panoramic shots of the Statue of Liberty, he walked behind them, suggesting improvements to their technique. "Watch the reflections," he called. "You'll get serious glare off all that water on a bright day like today."

He liked teaching kids, especially ones who were actually interested in the subject. During the school year he was stuck in a high school art room, teaching nobody anything except how to skate by with a passing grade. And if half of these rich kids had cameras that he could never afford on his salary, well, at least they were learning how to use them.

"Keep your elbows in," he called to Hailey, for the hundredth time.

Dylan hurried over to her. To _them_ , Kozlow amended mentally, because Hailey and Helen had been inseparable since the first class. He was very glad of that. Hailey was scatter-brained and unfocused. Helen was the exact opposite, attentive and careful, and she kept track of her friend.

Kozlow's little brother paid a little too much attention to the two of them. While he watched, Dylan grabbed Hailey by the elbows from behind and pretended he was going to throw her over the railing. She squealed in laughter and he released her, but kept touching her arm as she took her next round of photos. Then he reached over and touched Helen's arm as well. Just reminding them to keep their elbows down, Matt was sure. Nothing improper. Nothing anyone would complain about. Just a little … _too_.

"Does anyone know where my phone went?" Hailey said loudly.

Kozlow shook his head and went to join the search.

* * *

Harold Finch waited by the window. He had a clear and unobstructed view of the street and the main entrance of the Coronet Hotel, but he was four floors up, too high for a casual glance to reveal him to anyone on the street below.

 _If she saw him now …_

"That would be very bad," he said quietly. From long habit, he pulled his cuffs down and straightened his tie.

The door opened behind him and Reese came in. The man was pale with exhaustion and he limped noticeably, but his eyes said none of that mattered. "Mr. Reese."

"Finch." John gestured to the office. "Are we expanding the business?"

"Hardly. I've only rented this space – unofficially – for the evening. I needed the view."

Reese limped around the desk and joined him at the window. "Expecting someone?"

Up close his weariness was even clearer. "I shouldn't have asked you to come," Harold said quietly. He glanced at his watch. "This shouldn't take long."

John settled his weight on the windowsill to take the pressure off his leg, without comment.

 _It's better_ , Finch thought. _It's better than watching alone_. He felt more than a little foolish for having asked his friend to join him, but he was glad he'd come. "I do appreciate your being here."

"Do you want to tell me," Reese asked calmly, "or should I just wait for it?"

A white horse appeared at the end of the block. "There." Harold gestured. The horse pulled an open carriage. It turned down the block and made its way slowly to the hotel entrance. By the time it arrived, several dozen people had come out to the sidewalk to greet the occupants.

Grace Hendricks smiled and waved from the carriage, laughing at the absurdity of her princess-like arrival. Beside her, Gregg Everett also waved, more reservedly. Between them, his daughter beamed with excitement and flailed both arms at the waiting crowd.

Harold's breath caught in his chest. He waited for the pain to knife through him. John's hand landed on his shoulder, firm. _Not alone_. Even in this, he was not alone.

"They were married last Saturday, on the beach in Massachusetts," Finch said. He was surprised at how normal his voice sounded. "They had a reception there, followed by a brief honeymoon. Grace's friends insisted on throwing them a second reception here in the city."

"And these friends," Reese predicted wryly, "unexpectedly found an available space at the Coronet. Probably at a substantial discount."

Finch shrugged. "They did have to pay full price for the carriage, I'm afraid."

They watched as Everett climbed down from the carriage, then reached back to help his daughter and then his bride out. The child wore a simple white dress with a wide blue sash. It was pretty, but she was obviously comfortable and unconstrained. Grace's choice, Finch guessed. Grace herself wore a nice suit, pale yellow, a shade only a redhead could get away with.

Even from four floors up, she looked beautiful.

Everett held her hand as they walked into the hotel with their throng of well-wishers.

Finch became aware that even as the door closed behind them, he was waiting.

"The child?" Reese asked quietly.

"Elizabeth. She's nine."

The hand remained firm and warm on his shoulder. _Not alone. Not even in this._

Waiting. Waiting.

Silence, unstrained. And waiting.

He was waiting for it to _hurt_ , Harold realized. He was waiting for the reality to sink in. He was waiting for the rush of pain that this reality would certainly cause. Grace was gone, forever and irrevocably. He would never, ever have another chance to touch her face or look into her loving eyes or kiss her lips. Never. It should hurt. It _had_ to hurt.

It _did_ hurt, he realized. But it hurt in a low, dull, aching way. A nostalgic way.

The slicing agony he'd been expecting was not going to come. He'd already been through it.

He felt the warmth of John's hand soak into the habitual ache in his neck. _It's like that_ , he thought suddenly. _It was agonizing when I was first injured, but it's healed so much now. It aches. Some days it aches worse. And it's always with me. But it doesn't confine me anymore. I'm not helpless and immobile. Sometimes it's barely there at all. Grace is like that, too. Agonizing in the first days, but now … now just an ache from an old wound._

He took a deep breath.

His partner sensed the shift, as he always did, and his hand fell away.

"I do apologize, Mr. Reese." Finch adjusted his glasses, turned away from the window. "I … honestly expected this to be much more difficult."

"It's not?"

"It is, but … not like I anticipated." Finch shook his head. "I had planned to monitor – spy on – the wedding last week, but we were so busy with Numbers that the day passed before I remembered. So I thought today, seeing her in person …" He shook his head again, amazed and relieved. "Now I do feel _quite_ foolish for having had you come down here."

Reese shrugged. "You promised me dinner."

"Dinner. Yes." Finch looked over his shoulder at the hotel again. There was still no dagger of pain. The ache swelled, but it was by no means unbearable. "I will always miss her," he said simply. "But I'm glad she's happy. And not alone." He looked back at Reese. _And I am not alone, either, my friend_. _Perhaps that makes the difference_. "Dinner. Anywhere you like."

"American Cut," Reese said immediately. "I'm feeling carnivorous."

"You do look as if a hearty portion of red meat would do you good," Finch agreed. They turned and limped together out of the office. "How does your leg feel?"

"Four."

"I'm sure you're not taking any pain medication."

"After dinner."

They went to Harold's car, which he'd parked out of sight of the hotel. "Sure you don't want to sneak over and watch the party?" John said.

Finch considered this suggestion seriously. It was tempting. But not overwhelmingly so. "I think it best that I don't." Reese looked at him for a long moment. "I assure you, Mr. Reese, I am quite alright."

John simply nodded.

* * *

As they walked into the restaurant, Reese said, "Do you think – is it possible that the Machine's been giving us so many Numbers to distract you?"

"From Grace?" Finch considered. "I suppose so," he answered slowly. "A few months ago I would have said no, emphatically, but now that it's autonomous … perhaps." He thought further while the hostess seated them. "Although, all the Number have been legitimate, to some degree."

"True."

"Still, it's a possibility. I suppose if that's the case, things will be quieter now that she's gone."

"I hope so." Reese slumped back and closed his eyes for a moment.

Finch reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a foil pack of ibuprofen. "Take these," he ordered.

John peered at him through narrowed eyes, then shrugged and swallowed the pills with a sip of water.

"I suppose I might attempt to adjust the threshold somewhat," Finch mused. He began sorting code in his head. It would be tricky. Much would depend on how cooperative the Machine was inclined to be, now that it was autonomous…

"Threshold?"

"So that it gave us only the most serious Numbers."

Reese shook his head. "Twelve hours from now, either Repczinski or his landlord might have been dead. I thought the point of the Numbers was that the Machine left the choices to humans."

Finch nodded thoughtfully. "Still. You have to admit that currently we're stretched very thin."

"Maybe we need to bring in some more help."

"Perhaps." Finch didn't like the idea, at all, but their options were rapidly dwindling. They were both exhausted. And the Numbers never stopped coming.

"I'll take a look around," Reese continued, overriding his hesitance. "If I find someone likely, we can talk about it."

The waitress came by. Reese ordered a bourbon, neat, and an assortment of appetizers. After an instant of hesitation, Finch asked bourbon as well, and a glass of water.

"What we really need," Finch mused, "is someone who can intervene _before_ these situations get to be life-threatening. If Mr. Repczinski had been able to get assistance when he asked, he would have had no need to purchase a firearm."

Reese nodded, smiled at the waitress, and sipped his drink. "So what are you thinking? Some kind of privately-funded social services agency? Team Machine, minor league?"

He was only half kidding. "An agency with adequate staffing," Harold agreed. "One that wasn't overburdened and underfunded."

"Well, the funds aren't an issue, anyhow. Finding people that will actually help and not just pocket the money, that's a little trickier."

"Christine would know people," Finch said absently.

"Christine _was_ one of those people," Reese answered.

"Is. She _is_ one of those people."

John sipped his drink. "Just cats, still?"

"The kittens are growing," Finch answered morosely. There were six of them, three black and white, two yellow tigers, and one very pale yellow.

They were adorable, he supposed, if one were inclined to think such things about kittens.

He had still not tracked the geographical data from the photos, though he was still terribly tempted to do so. As he'd told Nathan a thousand times, any exploit was a total exploit. If he'd allowed himself that one small intrusion into her privacy, he doubted that he could have kept from allowing himself one more. Once he knew precisely where in Ireland she was, he would have let himself make sure that the neighborhood was relatively safe. That her hotel was up-to-date on its fire inspections. That the restaurant's food was adequate and sanitary. All in the name of her safety, of course.

He couldn't trust himself to stop if he let himself start.

They had a deal, he and Christine, and she had kept her part of it. He would not cheat on his end.

"She'll come back," Reese said.

"Of course she will." Unexpectedly, the same ache that he'd felt watching Grace welled in his chest. "Of course she will," he said again.

Reese watched him. His eyes were calm, bright. Much too discerning. Seeing too deeply into the things Finch tried to hide. _Too much like hers._ But John didn't comment. Instead, he changed the subject. "How was your lunch with your nephew?"

Harold sipped his drink, grateful. "Very good. Young Mrs. Ingram is, as expected, expecting."

"We all called that one. When's she due?"

"New Year's. Will is over the moon, of course."

"Julie's not?"

"She's been sick," Finch told him. "She's much better now, she says, but I gather she suffered with morning sickness all day every day for several weeks. And even now everything she eats gives her heartburn. It's put a bit of a damper on her enthusiasm."

"I can see where it would."

The appetizers came and they ordered entrees.

Mid-way through the meal, a cell phone buzzed at the next table and both men jumped. "Not mine," Finch said, relieved.

"It's like we have a newborn of our own," Reese said ruefully.

"Pardon?"

"Your Machine. We can never leave it unattended. When it wails we jump into action. It calls us day or night, even if we just attended to it an hour ago. We can never plan on getting a hot meal or a full night's sleep. It's like a newborn."

Finch scowled. "You know, Mr. Reese, I went to rather great lengths to keep from anthropomorphizing the Machine. And yet Miss Groves refers to it as a god, and you talk about it as our baby. It's really quite disconcerting."

Reese shrugged. "A rose by any other name, Finch."

"It's not a flower, either."

"Any word about her? Root?"

Finch shook his head. "I'm roughly ninety percent certain I know where she's being held. Beyond that – the system security on that location is very tight, and I'm frankly reluctant to attempt to access it, absent a credible threat of her escape."

"They're not going to let her escape, Finch. She's their most high-value captive."

"Even though she genuinely can't help them locate the Machine."

"They won't believe that," Reese answered. "Ever."

"So she'll be held there for the rest of her life." It was curious, Finch thought. He would normally have been saddened by the prospect of such a wasted life. But in the case of Miss Groves, it was actually a relief.

She had a brilliant mind and unlimited potential. But that mind was so twisted that she could not possibly be trusted in society.

The incalculable damage she had already done …

 _Three women_ , Finch thought. Grace, Christine and Root. Two good and one evil. Two now set on paths to futures that took and kept them away from him. One he was glad to be rid of. One he would always regret. And the third – the third's path was still uncertain.

The pain welled up again, unexpectedly sharp.

Christine was safe, he reminded himself. She had a mustached mother cat and her kittens to entertain her. She was working through her own pain, her own past. She was comfortable, if not happy.

She would come back to them. Or she wouldn't, and she would thrive somewhere in a new life, safely away from them and all the danger association with them would put her in. Either way, the lovely brilliant woman would go on. It was enough, that she would survive. It had to be enough.

"Eat, Finch," Reese said quietly. "Only your baby knows when we'll get another chance."

Finch scowled. But he picked up his fork. Reese was right, of course. It was only a matter of time.

* * *

They received four more Numbers over the next four days.

Then a heat wave hit the city, and the Numbers stopped abruptly.

* * *

The woman stopped in a shadow and leaned her back against the stone wall of the tall building. Even now, hours after sunset, it radiated the heat it had stored during the day. She could feel it through the soles of her shoes, too. And of course in the air, wrapped around her like damp beach towel half-dried on hot sand.

Most cities felt summer, of course. But New York City felt it in a unique way. Baked hard, splashed with little pools of cool from opened doors that warmed even before the doors latched. The nights that were never even remotely dark, but with deep shadows around every corner, a winding pathway of concealment. The smell of waste and humans and under it all, the sea. The traffic sounds that quieted but never went silent. And the voices. Always, somewhere, there were voices.

It had been a long time since she'd been in New York in the summer. A long time since she'd been there at all. She had felt like a foreigner since her return. Uncomfortable, unsettled. So much had changed. Everything had changed.

 _She_ had changed, most of all.

But tonight, in the first blast of summer heat, tonight she recognized her old city. And she felt it recognize her.

She took a long deep breath of smelly, stagnant air.

 _Yes._

The woman moved then, out from the shadow and into the next. She moved as steadily as she could. But it didn't come naturally any more. She had to think about it, had to study her next move, and her next. There had been a time when avoiding the light was second nature, when it took no conscious thought at all. The city was familiar, but she was not a part of it. She might never be again.

That was the deal she'd made when she'd left. The chance she'd taken.

She didn't have to look at her watch to know that she had just over an hour before she needed to head back. The children were safe, asleep in their beds, and their uncle was asleep on the couch downstairs. He wasn't their blood relative, but he was her best surviving friend in the world and she trusted him absolutely to protect them.

He was better at it than she was, actually, and no less devoted to their safety.

 _No one is coming for us_ , she reminded herself. _No one knows we're here. No one cares. Our cover is secure. I've taken every possible precaution. This is okay. This is necessary._

Panic rose in her chest. She felt her heart pound. She wrapped her hand over the emerald and focused on finding the next shadow.

 _I have to do this for them. I have to get through this._

 _I will smother them if I don't._

The woman stopped again and pressed her back against a wall. She made herself feel the heat and the hardness through her shirt. She took long deep breaths of the half-fetid air. She listened to the voices all around her.

 _You know this city. She is hard and hot and smelly and loud. She has a pulse, a life of her own. This city took you in when you were young and dumb and all alone. This city took you in when you were older and broken and sick. This city let you go when you were in love and could not stay here._

 _Your children will know this city as you know her, and she will know them. She will take them in, as she took you in. This is their home, their birthright, as much as that vast old house by the sea. This city is the family they haven't met yet. They deserve to know her._

The woman smiled grimly in the dark. She hadn't always been so poetic. She's spent a lot of time in this city thinking things like _get the hell out of my way_ and _don't you people ever shut up,_ and sometimes, _if you think I'm prey, come and get me. Let's go_.

Happy years by the shore had softened her. Happy evenings curled in her husband's arms, listening to him read poetry and bedtime stories and classics. Happy afternoons lounging in the sun on the deck of their little sailboat, or dangling her bare feet off the end of the dock. Happy nights on the bleachers watching baseball or football or basketball, or in the comfortably cushioned chairs in the auditorium watching band concerts and plays. Happy mornings on the porch, with a lap blanket and a huge cup of coffee, watching the deer nibble on the lawn. Years with him beside her, with his hand in hers. Years when it didn't matter what was around them, so long as she could touch his hand …

Her hand was so tight around the emerald that it hurt.

New York had been _his_ city, too.

Tears prickled at her eyes, and she brushed them away impatiently with her free hand. _This is not about him. It is not about you. It is about the children, your children together. It is about you reconnecting to this place so that the children can someday live here, if they wish. It's about getting past your fear and your grief and giving them a chance to live outside your shadow._

She took another deep breath. She picked her next three moves in shadows. Then she straightened up, released her death-grip on the gem around her neck, and she moved.


	5. Chapter 5

Harold Finch was dreaming. He knew the moment he took his first step that he was dreaming. There was no pain in his hip, and he walked without a limp. Sometimes in his dreams his wounds were fresh and agonizing. Sometimes he was still stuck in a damned wheelchair. But not this time. This dream was pleasant.

He was in a formal garden. The sky was clear, the air comfortably warm. Birds sang all around him.

"M'sieur Harold?" A small female voice, with a heavy French accent.

He turned. A girl about ten years old regarded him seriously. She had big blue eyes, bright in the sunshine. Her blonde hair was pulled back from her face, but fell in carefully-tended curls down her back. She wore an elaborately-tailored dresses that flared stiffly over white petticoats and ended below her knees, at the top of her high laced boots.

Except for the clothes, she looked precisely like Grace's new step-daughter, Elizabeth Everett.

"Mademoiselle Adele?" Finch guessed.

The girl giggled. "I'm _Laura._ "

"Oh, of course." Because he had overheard John and Christine promise each other that the first girl born to either of them would be named Laura in honor of John's mother, and therefore every small girl that Harold would ever dream of in the future would be named Laura – even if she was really Elizabeth Everett. Dream logic. He offered his hand, and when she took it, he bent very low to kiss her hand lightly. "I am pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Laura."

She giggled again. "My governess sent me to fetch you for tea." She stopped, her eyes wide at her own minor rudeness. "Forgive me." She dropped a small curtsey. "Miss Eyre asks if you will please join her for tea."

"I would be delighted." Harold straightened and offered his arm. The young lady placed her hand on his forearm and they walked toward the mansion.

He looked up at the gray stone tower. It was whole and unscarred; the fire hadn't happened yet.

"Why do you call yourself after birds?" Laura asked bluntly.

"I suppose because I am fond of birds."

"We saw a very big bird yesterday. There by the pond." She pointed. "It had long legs, as long as mine but thin as twigs, and it stood in the water, and every so often it would duck its beak. It had a very long beak, and very sharp, I thought. We went and looked closer. But not too close, because I was afraid."

"It must have been a heron, or a stork of some kind."

"Miss Eyre said it was eating tadpoles. And when it flew away we went and looked at the shore, and there were still tadpoles there. They are big and fat." She held up her thumb. "This big, and black all over, and with tails."

"I see."

"I wanted to catch one, but Miss Eyre said we should leave them where they are and we can visit every day when the weather is fair and watch them grow legs and turn into frogs. And I can make pictures in my sketch book of how they change every day."

Harold was charmed by the child's chatter – though he recognized that it would lose its charm rather quickly if he actually lived in this world. "That will be very interesting, I'm sure."

"Maybe," Laura agreed. "But I think the big bird will come back and eat them all up before they grow their legs."

"Well, they do sound rather delicious."

She looked up at him quizzically, trying to decide if he was joking. Then she smiled tentatively. "Here we are."

On a wide terrace at the base of the tower, Christine sat at a low wood table, set with a silver tea service. She was in black again, a severe long dress with a high collar and narrow sleeves, her hair caught in a tight bun at the base of her neck. A massively large dog sat beside her, a hunting hound of some variety.

Laura released his arm and ran to throw her arms around the dog's neck. "Pilot!' she squealed in delight. The dog bore the affection with great patience. The child straightened and looked to Christine. "Can I take him for a walk?"

"If you stay in the gardens."

The girl took hold of the dog's collar – he was taller than her waist, so she did not have to bend to reach it – and started off confidently. The dog looked back wistfully at the plate of little sandwiches on the table, then let Laura lead him away.

Christine gestured for him to join her. Harold eased into a cushioned chair next to his hostess. "Last night I dreamed I went to Mandalay again," he quoted.

"And yet you ended up at Thornfield Hall." She reached for the silver pot and poured tea. She filled her cup first, and Finch picked up the distinct scent of bergamot. Lady Gray was her favorite. But when she poured from the same pot into his cup, the tea as much paler and smelled of Sencha green. He raised an eyebrow. "It's your dream," Christine told him. "Of course it's your tea." She dropped in a single sugar cube.

"Of course." He picked up the cup and sipped. It was perfect. Of course. "I suppose it's got to do with the Machine. It created an identity for itself. Ernest Thornhill. I imagine I've conflated them."

"Maybe," she agreed. "But it's more likely the fires."

Harold looked up at the tower again. It was damaged now, part of it broken away, the stones black with soot. Yet it stood calmly against the brilliant blue sky.

There were two fires in the book, he remembered. The second fire destroyed a whole wing of the mansion, but the first was confined to Rochester's bedroom due to Jane's quick action. "I knew you would do me good in some way, at some time," he quoted softly. "I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their expression and smile did not – did not strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing. People talk of natural sympathies: I have heard of good genii: – there are grains of truth in the wildest fable."

Christine smiled over her tea cup. "Someone's been brushing up."

"I miss you," he admitted simply.

"I miss you," she returned.

"Will you come home soon?"

She looked up at the ruined top of the tower. The fire. She was right, it all came back to the fire. "It hurts," she said quietly.

She had said the same thing to him years and years ago, in the same quiet, broken voice. "I know," he answered. He desperately wished he could say something more. Something that would ease her pain. Something that would convince her that she was not alone. Something – anything. _Anything_. "I know," he repeated.

The fine china tea cup trembled in her hand, and Christine put it down carefully. "If I do come home," she asked, "are you ready for me to know?"

"To know what?"

Her eyes met his. "Everything," she answered simply.

Harold sat straight up in bed. Pain shot up his spine and into the base of his brain. For a moment he could only see orange, and then yellow and blue, the colors of flame. He panted deliberately. In a moment the pain diminished. A bit.

He raised his hands to cover the old scars, willing their heat to ease the morning ache. When he could bear it, he turned his head slightly to the left and then to the right. Looked up, then down. Slowly, slowly, his pain faded and his mobility, such as it was, returned.

He glanced at his cell phone. It was not quite five in the morning. He'd slept for nearly six hours.

There were, blessedly, no new notifications. Yet.

Finch carefully put his feet on the floor. He knew from experience that there was no point in trying to get back to sleep. He might as well take advantage of the certainly-temporary lull to take care of personal hygiene and then, if it held, to catch up on some of his neglected identities.

He tried very hard not to think about the dream.

* * *

It had been ninety-five the day before, and only dropped to eighty overnight. By eight the next morning the thermometer was headed up again.

Carter and Fusco looked at the body on the floor. She had been twenty-something, and was wearing a short skirt and a gauzy top over a colored bra. She wore way too much blue eye shadow. It was impossible to tell if she'd been a prostitute or just a party girl.

The side of her head had been bashed in with a metal baseball bat. The bat was on the floor beside her.

"Prints?" Fusco asked.

"Lots of them," the lab tech said. He gestured to the white powder on the handle of the bat.

"Sexual assault?" Carter mused.

"Nothing obvious."

"Time of death?"

"Ehhh. Hard to tell for sure, with the heat. Call it two to five a.m."

"How about the canvas?"

"Neighbors on the right didn't hear anything. Neighbor on the left isn't home."

"Upstairs? Downstairs?"

"Haven't got to them yet."

Fusco looked at the door frame. "Lock's not broke. Looks like she let him in."

There was a tiny purse on the table beside the door. Carter put on her gloves and opened it. "ID, thirty-two bucks, credit card. Not a robbery."

Fusco leaned over the body. "Club stamp," he said, pointing to the back of her hand.

"They won't be open yet," Carter sighed. She looked around the apartment, but there was nothing much to see. In the window, a portable air conditioner fought against the hot humid air outside and failed utterly. "Let's go talk to the neighbors."

The downstairs neighbors were gone, probably already left for work.

The upstairs neighbor answered their knock. His t-shirt had big wet stains under both arms; his A/C wasn't cutting it either.

They flashed their badges. "I'm Detective Carter, Homicide. I wanted to ask you about your neighbor downstairs …"

"I just got to sleep," the man said.

"Pardon?"

"Last night. I just got to sleep. Finally. It was so damn hot. I just laid there, soaking in my own sweat. I just got to sleep. And she came in and turned on her damn hip-hop music full blast. Stupid bitch."

Carter looked at her partner uneasily. "So," Fusco asked, "you went downstairs and asked her to turn it off?"

"She said she couldn't hear it over her air conditioner if she turned it down."

"So you picked up the bat?" Carter guessed.

"I just got to sleep," the man repeated. "It was so damn hot."

He let them cuff him without complaint. On the way out to the squad car, he said, "Your jail. It got central air?"

"Yeah," Carter told him. "It's got air."

"Okay."

"Okay."

* * *

John Reese slept for ten hours. He woke and checked his phone. There were no messages. He used the bathroom, then went back to bed and slept four more hours.

There were still no messages when he woke up the second time.

He called Finch. "Nothing?" he asked, without greeting.

"Nothing for us," Finch answered.

"Good. Call me if you need me."

He showered and shaved. Then he headed out for a jog. But the minute he hit the hot, humid outside air he changed his mind. He went back inside and checked the class schedule, then grabbed his car keys and went to a hot yoga session instead.

Reese was genuinely surprised when he got through the entire class without interruption. Pushing his luck, he went to a diner and ordered breakfast. Then he went home, showered again, and put on his suit.

The minute he left his apartment, he shrugged out of his jacket.

The library was dim and quiet, and even the thick stone walls could not keep out the sweltering heat. Reese tapped his earpiece. "Finch?"

"Mr. Reese?"

"Where are you?"

"At home," Finch answered. "Why?"

"Thought you'd be at the library." Reese moved to the back room and checked that there was food for the cat. There was, of course. No sign of Smokey herself; she was likely down on the ground floor on a cool bit of tile. No sign of Bear, either, though his water dish was full.

"It's much too hot there," Finch answered. "We have no new Number. You should be resting."

"Huh."

"I'll call you if anything comes up," Harold assured him.

"Bear's with you?"

"Yes."

"Maybe I should stop over and take him for a walk."

Finch snorted at John's transparent attempt to find out where he actually lived. "I took him out earlier. After half a block, he had no interest in going any further."

Reese grinned. "Let me know if you change your mind."

"Good day, Mr. Reese." The link went dead.

* * *

Root guessed that it was hot outside by the pitch of the air handlers. She walked to the wall beneath the window and touched the concrete. It was definitely warmer than usual. Her guards seemed a little lethargic, and her morning milk had not been as cold as usual.

She'd already done her exercises. It was at least an hour until lunch. She paced in a slow circle around her cell until she began to feel dizzy. Then she turned and paced the other way.

One fingernail felt rough at its tip. She had trimmed her nails the day before, under the watchful eyes on one of her keepers. Of course he took the trimmer back the minute she was finished. This nail was just a little uneven. She paused and bit it, then spit the tiny bit on the floor.

She examined her nails, then bit another one, and then another.

She paced a few more circles.

She examined her other hand, and bit two more nails.

More circles. Circles the other direction.

Root sat down on her bunk, took off her socks, and examined her toenails.

The nail on the middle toe of her right foot was too long and slightly jagged. She tried to pick the loose bit off, but it would not come. She considered, then bent down and bit it, too.

By the time her lunch came, Root was sore from bending in half to bite her toenails, but she was satisfied with the results.

* * *

Before they got the paperwork done on the first murder, Carter and Fusco got called out to a second case.

This time both potential victims were still alive. Both were on their way to the hospital, one in critical condition. Their vehicles were both double-parked in the street next to a single empty parking space. The front bumper of one had clearly come in contact with the back of the other, though neither car was badly damaged.

The minor wreck had traffic backed up for ten blocks. There was an unusual amount of horn-blowing and cursing from the waiting cars, even for New York.

"Talk to me," Fusco said to the uniform on the scene.

The cop gestured to the back car. "This guy was waiting for the spot." He gestured to the front one. "This guy tried to jump it. He rammed him. This guy got out and hit the other guy with a tire iron. So he backed up and rammed him with the car. Broke his leg."

Carter wiped her forehead. "Why'd you call in Homicide Task Force?"

"I just called for a detective. The one that got hit with the iron might not make it."

The driver of a car behind them, passing in the single open lane, leaned on his horn and screamed, "Get that pile of shit out of the way!"

"Hey!" Fusco shouted back. "Watch your mouth!"

The driver flipped him off and sped off.

"It's gonna be one of those days," Carter groaned. She pulled out her notebook.

* * *

Reese sat in his car with the A/C blasting and tried to decide what to do. The Machine had had him and Harold jumping for so long that he'd forgotten what to do with downtime.

He'd covered the basics: Sleep, eat, hygiene. He supposed that for Finch would also include system maintenance on that list. He should include weapons maintenance to his, but he had enough overstock that he could swap out used weapons until he had time to clean them. It could wait.

On the secondary needs list, he'd gotten in a workout. He hadn't been in his apartment enough to get it dirty. He should turn the Roomba loose to sweep, maybe dust. He'd dropped off his laundry; he needed to pick it up. And he should get some groceries. But aside from that, his day was free.

 _Movie_ , he mused idly. _Maybe later._

 _Zoe Morgan?_ _Too hot to even think about it. Although there was air conditioning to be found …_

He pulled out his cell phone and called Carter.

"What?" she snapped in greeting.

Reese blinked. "Just calling to see how your day was going, Detective."

"It's a hundred degrees out here," she snarled. "How do you think my day is going?"

"Not well, apparently."

"What do you want, John?"

"I was going to ask if you wanted to grab some lunch. My treat."

Carter laughed sharply. "Lunch, right. Like that's going to happen today. Just tell me what you need so I can get back to my bodies."

Reese frowned. "I really don't need anything, Joss. I was just checking in."

"You don't need anything."

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Good. Call me when you do." Her phone clicked dead.

Reese looked at the silent device in his hand. Well, he supposed that just since the Machine had quieted down, it didn't mean the whole city had. Carter was short-tempered, but she didn't seem to be mad specifically at him. She would have let him know, specifically.

The very best thing about Joss Carter was that she always made sure he knew where he stood with her.

He put his phone away and started the car.

* * *

The man who called himself Black scowled when his phone rang. He was holding an oversized cheeseburger with both hands and for once they'd gotten it right; the inside was deep pink, rare and barely warm. In this overly air-conditioned room it would go cold in a few minutes. He shrugged and ignored the phone.

Less than two minutes later it rang again.

The dark man growled under his breath, but he put his sandwich down, wiped his hands carefully, and pulled out his phone. "Yes?"

"We followed that guy," Gusev said without greeting. "He led us to a girl. But it's not the right one."

"How would you know?"

"You said a grown woman. This is a girl. Take a look."

Black's mouth grew tight. He fumbled with his phone until he managed to find the picture the mobster sent. The figure was very small, photographed from a distance in what looked like a park. The man poked around again until he managed to zoom in on the woman.

The teenager looked familiar, somehow, but she was definitely not the woman he wanted to kill.

"Follow her," he ordered. "See where she goes."

Gusev huffed. "Excuse me?"

"You are capable of tailing a teenage girl, aren't you?"

"I don't think you got this right in your head, buddy. I don't take orders from you."

"No," Black answered, "you take orders from your people in Moscow. And they told you to cooperate with me, did they not?"

There was a long pause. Black poked at his cheeseburger with his fingertip. It was already too cold to be palatable.

"Yeah," the man finally answered. "Fine. But these file you promised? She better have them, and they better be as good as you say. Otherwise you're gonna be in a world of hurt, brother."

Black snarled to himself. "Find out where the girl lives," he said. "If Kostmayer led you to her, she'll lead you where we want to go."

"She better."

"But if your people can't keep up with her …"

The phone went dead.

Black pushed his plate away.


	6. Chapter 6

The empty lot where the Chaos Café had once stood was more than half-way through its transition into a park. There was a concrete footer poured for the walkways, and the walls were roughed in for the small building that would house public bathrooms and a storage room. The storage room concealed a secret entrance to the stairs down to the abandoned underground speakeasy. John had done a lot of that work himself, in the dark. He was pleased with the results. Any of the two dozen veterans with a key and knowledge of the tunnel could access it easily.

There was a concave pit at the front of the building that would eventually be a walk-in fountain. The bases were in for the playground equipment, and the uprights for the picnic table shelter stood at attention on the other side of the lot.

A tall chain-link fence surrounded the construction site, but the gate stood open. At the center of the lot, six workmen were gathered around a large crate.

Reese left his jacket in the car and rolled up his sleeves as he walked from his car. It did exactly nothing to ease the oppressive heat. His shirt plastered itself to his back by the time he entered the gate.

The workers were all unapologetically sweaty. And one of them, completely indistinguishable from the others, was a billionaire.

Will Ingram separated himself from the group and met him with an outstretched hand. "John. How are you?" He paused, pulled his hand back and wiped it on his jeans. "Sorry. You probably don't want to do that." He looked at the grease that remained on his hand, then dropped it to his side. "How've you been?"

"Good," Reese answered. He genuinely liked Harold's nephew, and finding him here in torn jeans and a grimy white t-shirt just confirmed everything he knew about him: Despite the massive fortune he'd inherited from Nathan Ingram, Will still thought of himself as a working man. "You?"

"Good. Real good." The young man might have flushed a little, though it was hard to tell in the heat. "Did you hear, we're having a baby?"

"I heard. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"How's Julie doing?"

"Better now. She was pretty sick for a while." He waved up the block. "She's down at the office. I told her I'd drive her up later to have a look."

"Glad you persuaded her to stay in out of this heat."

"Yeah. She really didn't take much persuading." Will squinted up at the sun. "You know, I spent a lot of time in Africa, I'm used to the heat, but this …"

"The humidity," John agreed before he finished. "I know."

"It just wrings it out of you, doesn't it?"

"This is really coming along." Reese gestured to the park.

"Yeah, they've been getting things done. I get the feeling Uncle Harold's kind of steamrolling the city inspectors' office. Want to see today's project?"

"Sure."

They walked over to the crate just as the foreman finished prying the lid off. Inside was a stack of blue-green panels, shiny, three feet square.

"Solar panels?" John guessed.

"Solar sidewalks." Will gestured to the concrete footer. "Gonna put them where the walkways go, and then all around the building."

Reese touched the smooth surface. It was very warm. Of course, it would be in this heat. "I saw an article about roadways that were solar."

"Same technology," Ingram confirmed. "The road surface is still being tested, refined. But it's more than sturdy enough for sidewalks now." He backed up as the men moved in to lift the first panel out. "It stores energy all day and glows at night. In the winter it stays warm enough that it usually doesn't need shoveling. And they ran wiring," he gestured to the footer again, "to a storage battery in the back there. It'll help power lights inside the bathrooms. We're putting solar panels on the roof, too. And a passive hot water tank under the roof line."

"So the park is basically self-powering."

"Should be, pretty much." Will nodded happily. "But more importantly, Scotty says it gives people a chance to get used to it. So in five years, when someone says, 'We want to re-pave Madison Avenue with solar cells', they can think, "oh, yeah, like those sidewalks in that park'."

Reese nodded thoughtfully.

"We might try out some wind trees, too," Ingram continued. "They're really pretty, and almost silent. The thing is, we have to find a way to keep them from being vandalized."

John watched while the men laid the first panel down. It was half an inch too wide for the footer. They hoisted it back out and removed the wooden forms, then put it down again. As they began to fill in the dirt around the edges, and just before he spoke up to remind them, the foreman remembered that they had to connect the panel to the grid. That done, they set the panel in place for hopefully the last time.

In the midst of a lot of dry-packed dirt and some scrubby weeds, the panel looked like a cool koi pond, shimmering blue-green and inviting.

They paused to look, and he could tell that, hot and sweaty as they were, they all appreciated the sudden beauty.

The men went back for a second panel.

"So," Reese said with forced calm, "you talked to Scotty?"

Ingram shook his head. "She e-mails us. Couple times a day, lately. Mostly about business stuff. Although she did send a whole long list of baby links. We tried to get her on a conference call or to Skype us, but …" He shrugged. "You?"

"She e-mails," John answered honestly. He fought down a wave of unexpectedly sharp jealousy.

"Julie says she can communicate at her own pace, on e-mail," Will offered. "In her own time."

"I suppose."

Will squinted up at the sun again. For the first time his easy manner gave way to a more guarded posture. "Is there an … issue?"

"Issue?" Reese repeated, more harshly then he intended.

The young doctor did not back down. "Scotty and Harold. She never says anything, but … well, the fact that she never says anything says a lot. They were tight, before she left. And now there's this – silence. From him, too."

John took a deep breath. "I don't know."

"If it's something I can help with," Ingram offered. "Act as a go-between or whatever." He still looked uncomfortable. "I know Uncle Harold would never ask me for help. That kind of help. He still thinks I'm a kid. And I'm not asking you to, you know, betray any confidences. But if you see an opening, somewhere I could do some good, or where Julie could, let us know?"

 _I really like this man_ , Reese thought, not for the first time. Ingram had an openness and kindness about him that was sometimes unnerving. He wore his heart on his sleeve. The world should have crushed him long ago. The places he'd been as a doctor, and the things he'd seen in the harshest corners of the world, should have made him hard and cynical. Instead he remained hopeful and helpful.

"I appreciate the offer," John said, "and I'll keep it in mind. But I'm not sure there _is_ a problem. It may just be introverts doing what they do."

"Retreating when wounded," Ingram nodded. "Could be. But if you hear anything …"

"I'll let you know," John promised. The second solar panel went in a little easier. He nodded to himself. "If _you_ hear anything, in her e-mails, that looks like she could use some hands-on attention, let me know."

"I will," Ingram promised.

The sidewalk was starting to look like a cool stream. John liked it, very much. "Tell Julie I said hello," he said.

"I will. Stop by some time. The office looks great."

"I will." John skirted the newly-installed panels and walked back to his car. The A/C blasted a wave of muggy air at him for a moment, then settled into cooling again. It was too late; his shirt was soaked from his brief time outside.

He looked back at the park-to-be. Will Ingram was helping to carry one of the panels. John tried to imagine Logan Pierce getting his hands dirty that way. He grinned and shook his head. No, aside from age and good hair, there was no comparison between the young billionaires.

He was more than a little jealous that Christine would e-mail Will when all he and Harold got was kitten pictures. But he understood that, too. Will and Julie had a very different relationship with her. She could keep them at a more comfortable distance.

He wondered if Ingram might be right, if there might be some greater rift between Christine and Harold than he was aware of. But Finch seemed to be sharing every communication he received. If there was any rift at all, it was more likely between _him_ and Christine. John was the one who had forced her to relive her early childhood experiences with her drug-addled father – on the same night she'd had to kill a man in the same place where her father had died.

He didn't know what had happened between his friends while he'd been out of his mind. From what he remembered, they'd been united to care for him. He couldn't recall any tension between them. But then, he couldn't recall a lot.

Except that when Harold had come into Christine's bedroom the first time, he's been wearing a t-shirt instead of his usual shirt, vest and jacket. That John had been struck at how _undressed_ he looked, though he was still fully covered.

But that tidbit had been overshadowed drastically by the fact that Finch had a massive bruise on his face, the precise size and shape of John Reese's fist.

He had hit Harold nearly hard enough to snap his neck, and if Christine hadn't been there …

… but she _had_ been there, she'd seen it, and though she'd never been afraid of John before, maybe she was now, because if he could turn on Harold when he was out of his mind, he could certainly turn on her as well …

… but she'd stayed with him anyhow, all through the night, all through his madness. She could easily have escaped, left him to fight off his memories on his own, but she hadn't. Not even when he was calmer, safe, she'd stayed beside him. She wasn't afraid.

Reese closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the steering wheel. It was over. Finch forgave him. Christine would, or more likely already had. Root was locked away and would never threaten any of them again. He needed to let go. _He needed to let go_.

The air cooled around him. John took a deep breath and sat up. Will Ingram was still hauling solar panels in the heat. He didn't need to be sitting here feeling sorry for himself.

He put the car in gear and drove past Oasis – Harold's preferred name for the building which housed the offices of the Carson-Ingram Renewable Energy Initiative as well as Christine's apartment and the Ingrams'. He thought about stopping in, checking in on Julie. Then he saw the tall black man by the front window, and he kept driving.

He had not precisely forgotten that Taylor Carter was working with Will and Julie. But he hadn't processed that he would probably need to re-introduce himself to the boy – the young man. And that he probably ought to talk to Joss about it first.

It sounded like she was having a busy day. She'd be in no mood for chit-chat.

She would, however, be in the mood for lunch on the fly.

He checked his mirror, then made a u-turn and headed for her favorite deli.

* * *

"Has anyone seen my phone?" Hailey called.

Helen gathered up the wrappers from her lunch and tossed them in the trash can. Then she calmly dialed her friend's number on her own phone. "Picnic table," she called, pointing.

"You're the best, Hell!"

Dylan dropped into the bench next to the Helen. "That's the second time today, isn't it?"

"Third."

"You're very patient with her."

Helen shrugged. "It's no big deal."

"I had to go half-way across town to get her camera yesterday."

"See, you're patient, too."

"Not me. I just do what my brother tells me to do." He opened a pack of Oreos. "Want one?"

"Sure." Helen took one of the mini cookies. "Thanks."

"So I was thinking. Maybe we could go out some time."

"What?"

"Do you have a boyfriend already?"

"No. I mean, I did, but …" Helen stared at him. "My mom would flip shit."

Dylan grinned. "Why? You're going to be dating guys my age when you get to college next year anyhow."

She started to laugh, but he was serious. "I'm not going to college next year."

"You taking a pass year?"

"I'll be a junior."

"What?"

"A junior. In high school."

Dylan stared. "You're … how old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"You're _sixteen_? Are you kidding? I thought you were way older than that."

"Uh, thanks," Helen said, "I think."

"I don't mean like that." He offered another Oreo as an apology. "I just meant … I mean, I know Hailey's sixteen and she acts _way_ younger than you. I figured you were at least eighteen. And mature for your age."

Helen suddenly felt an odd flutter in her chest. It was a feeling her parents had taught her to trust; her instinct that something was wrong. At least, that's what it had always meant before. This time she wasn't so sure. "I'm the oldest. I guess that makes me be more responsible. Being a big sister, you know?"

"Sure, but …I just never would have thought you were sixteen. Man. Now I feel like an old perv."

He was apologizing and flirting at the same time. Helen decided she liked it, and her internal warning system said she shouldn't.

"You're the same age as Hailey?" Dylan said again. "Really? She can't even keep track of her stuff – and you keep track of _her_."

"It's no big deal," she said, and then realized she'd already said that.

"Well, I think it's pretty cool." He put his hand on her forearm, just for a second. "Just don't get so stuck taking care of her that you don't have any time to have fun yourself."

Helen smiled at him. The flutter was still there, stronger than ever. "How old are you?"

"Old," Dylan admitted. He took his hand away. "I'm almost twenty."

"Oh, God, you're ancient."

"I know, right?"

Hailey came back, with her cell phone. "Oooh, can I have a cookie?"

Dylan laughed. "Of course you can, little girl."

* * *

"I'm done, Carter," Fusco said firmly. "They can all kill each other for all I care. I am not looking at one more dead body until I get some damn lunch."

"Hangry much?" his partner teased half-heartedly.

"Hangry," he snorted. "You been hangin' out with my kid now?"

Carter opened her car door, then stopped short. "Fusco, wait."

"What?" Fusco asked.

"Lunch," his partner said, "I hope."

Fusco opened his own door and looked. Between the seats, on top of the on-board computer, there was a small white Styrofoam cooler.

"Could be lunch," Carter continued. "Could be a bomb."

Fusco looked across the car at her. She looked worried. More worried than usual. "Any reason to think it's a bomb?"

"Just the usual."

"Uh-huh." He stepped back from the car and pulled out his phone. Reese answered on the first ring. "Hey, wiseguy, you bring us lunch?"

"Didn't you enjoy it?" Reese answered.

"How come you packed it in a cooler?"

"Because it's over a hundred degrees out and I don't want to poison you. Today."

"Today. Thanks a lot."

"Plans change, of course," the former spy said. "But no, not at the moment."

"Thanks." Fusco snapped his phone off. "It's okay," he told his partner. "It's from your boyfriend."

Carter scowled. "He wishes." She got in the car and opened the cooler. There were sandwiches and chips and bottled ice tea and water.

"What, no cookies?" Fusco complained.

"In the bottom." Joss pointed. She started the car and cranked up the air conditioner.

"You sure you're not worried about something?" he asked, half-way through his sandwich. "You been a little jumpy lately."

"We're surrounded by corrupt cops and working with a vigilante who's wanted by four or five federal agencies. What would I be worried about?"

"None of that's new, Carter."

She shook her head. "Maybe I just really need that vacation after all."

"Maybe so. I told you, you shoulda' taken it while things were quiet."

"Yeah. You're right. When you're right, Fusco, you're right."

Before they were done with lunch, they had another call.

* * *

It was stupidly hot again the next day. The class was supposed to spend the afternoon on Time Square, but Jeff Kozlow made the command decision that they would spend it inside Madame Toussad's wax museum, where the temperature was bearable.

Helen sent her mother a quick text about the change of plan, and a selfie of her and Hailey with the King.

"You mom really worries about you, huh?" Hailey asked as they wandered.

"She just likes to know where I am."

"I don't think mine know where I am half the time."

"That must be nice."

"No, it sucks."

"But you can get away with stuff."

Hailey shrugged. "It's not really getting away with it if they don't care."

Helen thought about it. At home, she had about the same amount of freedom as other kids in her class. It was only here, in New York, that her mother had become so over-protective. She understood why, of course. The dangers had been drilled into her head for six months, since she'd first suggested this trip. And she knew that the minute something went wrong, her mom was going to cut the trip short, throw them all in the van, and take them home. So sending a quick text with Elvis was the simplest way to keep the peace.

She supposed she was lucky, even if it didn't always seem that way.

She expected Dylan Koslow to hang out with them in the museum, but it looked like his brother was keeping him close. On a short leash of his own. That was probably for the best.

Helen and Hailey went down to the World Leaders section and took a bunch of digital pics. Some of the likenesses were really good. Some weren't. Helen was surprised that her friend knew all of them by name. "Wouldn't have guessed you were a history buff."

Hailey shrugged. "There was this contest in like, third grade. Whoever could remember the most got a ribbon."

"You still have it, don't you?" Helen teased. "The ribbon?"

Another tourist, a small, dark man, looked directly at her, then turned his head and moved away.

"On my mirror," Hailey admitted. "I know, I'm a giant dork."

"I think that's a nerd thing, but whatever."

"There was a boy," the blonde admitted. "James Kelly. He was hot. I mean, for a third grader. He still is, actually. But he was really into presidents. So I wanted to win the ribbon to impress him."

The dark man wasn't just checking her out, Helen noted. He was looking over everyone in the room. He wore a cheap black suit, and he kept one hand in his pocket. It was – unusual. Half by instinct, she slipped her arm through Hailey's. If they needed to move fast – if the sneaky man brought out a gun – she had a head start. Her alarm was at about twenty percent. He was probably just a tourist. "Did it? Impress him?"

"No. He was pissed off that he got beat by a girl."

"Figures."

"Yeah."

The little man looked around the room again. Then he brought his hand out. There was no gun. He was holding something, though. Something small.

Rather than decreasing, Helen's alarm level surged to about fifty percent. She nearly ran into John Adams.

"Carefully," Hailey said.

"Sorry." Helen drew her friend into a corner.

"What are you looking at?"

"Shhhh." She gestured with her head, just barely. "That guy over there. Check him out."

"Ewwww. He's old."

"Yeah, but watch him." The man made a half-circle of the room again and paused next to a trash can.

"He looks like a rat," Hailey complained.

"I know." Helen pulled her arm so that her friend was facing her and she could watch over her shoulder without being too obvious. "And he's sneaking around like one."

The man's dark eyes scanned the room again. He backed up to the trash can and slipped his hand behind him. Helen caught a glimpse of what he was holding. Putty-colored, a tube of some kind, small enough to hide in his palm.

He groped at can behind his back. Then suddenly he straightened up and clasped his empty hands in front of him. He looked around the room again, then hurried out.

"That was a fucking dead drop," Helen murmured, both surprised and a little delighted.

"What?"

"A dead drop. It's an old spy thing."

"Maybe he's an old spy."

"Maybe." Helen didn't think that was very likely. A real spy would have been a lot less obvious making a drop. Hell, her little sister would have been a lot less obvious. She watched until the man was beyond the next room, then kept Hailey's arm and strolled casually to the trash can.

"What are you doing?"

"Seeing what he dropped."

"What if it's like drugs or something?"

Helen shook her head. "That guy's like sixty years old. It's not drugs." It might be explosives, her intuition countered, but it was small enough to conceal in the palm of his hand, so it probably wouldn't pack much punch. Unless it was some kind of high-grade explosive, which again seemed unlikely. The cheap suit said he was a C-4 kind of guy.

Her father had told her something about cheap suits once. Sometimes, rarely, they were a disguise, meant to assure people that the wearer was harmless. But most often, they were just cheap suits.

"It's a love note or something," she assured her friend.

"What if we get caught?"

"I'll put it right back," Helen promised. "I just want to see what it is." She put her purse down on top of the can and reached into it for a little tin of mints. She opened them, offered one to Hailey – and snaked her free hand into the can. There, on a little ledge at the bottom of the lid, was a plastic film canister. She snapped the mint tin shut and dropped both items into her purse. "I need to hit the ladies' room," she announced.

"Okay." Hailey leaned closer. "Did you get it?"

Helen grinned and led her out of the room.

They crowded into the handicapped stall together. Helen opened the canister. Inside was a roll of film. Twelve exposures, 100 speed. Duane Reade brand. The cheapest possible option. There was no tail; the film was exposed.

"What do you think's on it?" Hailey asked eagerly.

"I have no idea."

"We have to develop it."

Helen turned the little cartridge over in her hand. "We should put it back."

"Are you crazy?" Hailey challenged. "What if it's like, super-secret nuclear plans?"

"Then somebody's intelligence agency is tits up," Helen breathed. She put the film back in the canister. "We should put it back."

"You're no fun."

"What if it's dirty pictures of his grandmother?"

"Then we'd be doing the world a favor," Hailey pronounced with disgust.

Helen dropped the tube back into her purse. "Let's go."

They walked out of the ladies' room. "There you are," Dylan Kozlow said. "Been looking for you. Time to go."

"Uhhh," Helen said, "I just need to stop by the Presidents real quick."

"Nope. Jeff's getting the van. Let's go."

"It's a sign," Hailey said, taking Helen's arm. "Now we have to see Saggy Naked Grannies."

"Ugh." But Helen was intrigued, too. She let her friend lead her out of the museum.

* * *

Mr. Black, as his new associates called him, watched as the Institute's van drove away, then glanced at his cell phone. "That's how it's done," he announced smugly, to himself.

Two trampy women in short skirts looked at him oddly and then hurried on their way.


	7. Chapter 7

Reese arrived at the library with lunch for his partner. Thin-shaved turkey heaped between slices of thick sourdough bread, with lettuce and tomatoes, mayo for Finch and brown mustard for him. He looked toward the board while he unpacked. "Who's the new girl?"

Finch finished hanging the last picture and turned. "Helen Zane," he said, pointing to the photo of a teenager at the top. "Sixteen. She lives in a small town fifty miles outside Duluth, Minnesota. She and her family are spending the summer in New York." He pointed to each of the pictures in the next row. "Brothers Robert and Michael, 14 and 12, and sister Sarah, 10." And at the bottom, "Mother Elizabeth."

"Another Elizabeth."

"It does seem to be the name of the week."

"No father?" Reese unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite.

"Died nearly two years ago. Natural causes."

"Hmmm." John stepped closer to the board, finished chewing and swallowed. The children all shared distinctive facial features: slender faces, strong, narrow chins, high sharp cheekbones, heavy brows. The girls had gotten enough softening from their mother to be pretty. The boys looked just alike, and probably just like their father. "So how has Miss Zane managed to get into trouble?"

"I don't know yet," Finch answered. "She's attending a summer photography class – a day camp, if you will, six weeks of exploring the city with a camera. Theory, composition, even old-fashioned film developing."

"Film photography? That's quaint."

"I suppose it's akin to her generation's new fascination with vinyl record albums. Everything old is new again." He smirked. "This particular course is underwritten by a generous grant from Mr. Logan Pierce."

Reese's mouth tightened. "Please tell me he's not involved in this."

"As far as I've been able to determine, his only involvement is writing a check."

"Good." The last thing Reese wanted was to get tangled up with the arrogant, irresponsible, and much too smart billionaire.

"They meet Monday through Friday at the Manhattan Art Institute. Classroom work in the morning and field trips nearly every afternoon. So far she's been in attendance every day. There have been no incidents reported, either with her or with the group as a whole."

"We need to look at the instructors, counselors, whatever they are."

"Done," Finch announced. He pointed to a stack of reports on the table. "Everyone associated with the camp has been extensively and thoroughly vetted."

"That was quick."

Finch made a little face. "I can't take the credit, I'm afraid. Miss Zane's mother hired a highly reputable and very expensive security firm to perform the background checks before she enrolled her."

"Reputable and expensive?"

"Skydd," Finch confirmed.

"And since you _own_ Skydd …"

"It was a simple matter to access their reports, yes."

"Sounds like Mom expected trouble," Reese mused.

"Perhaps. But I would say it's more a matter of her being hyper-vigilant. She requested similar reports on everyone associated with activities attended by all her children."

"They're campers, too?"

Finch consulted his notes. "Robert is attending a teen theatre workshop and will likely play an extra in a production of _Hamlet_ in August. Michael is splitting his time between a robotics group and a space explorers camp. And young Sarah is participating in a camp called 'Arms of the Middle Ages', which features fencing, archery, obstacle courses, swimming, and horseback riding."

"She's my favorite," Reese decided.

"I thought she would be."

"What's Mom doing while the kids are at camp?"

"Driving them around, I imagine." Finch shook his head. "She's also retained Skydd's services to pick up and drop off several of the children every day. I imagine that's simply a matter of logistics. But I haven't found any record of her being enrolled in anything herself."

"There's plenty of money, obviously."

"The father was a currency trader. They're well-off, though not excessively so."

Reese studied the photo of the mother more closely. "Finch … this woman has a ten year-old child? How old is she?"

"Fifty-five."

"She looks older."

Finch nodded. "I noticed. It's not a particularly good photo, of course. I thought perhaps she'd been seriously ill. Cancer survivors, for example, frequently appear older than they really are. But there's no record of anything like that."

"Her husband died. She could still be in mourning."

"Perhaps."

"Fifty-five. And her oldest is sixteen. She got a late start."

"That may explain why she's overprotective," Finch offered.

"The family's from a small town, and now they're in the big city. She's probably feeling like a fish out of water. Weren't you anxious when you first came here, Finch?"

Harold smiled tightly. "Are you asking if I came from a small town, Mr. Reese?"

Reese grinned. "So no idea what the threat to Miss Zane is?"

"Not as yet."

"Where is she now?"

"The group took a trip to Time Square today. They should be headed back to the Institute shortly."

"I'm on my way, then." Reese wrapped the remaining half of his sandwich back up and took it with him.

"I'll see what else I can find out about our visitors."

"Eat your lunch," John called over his shoulder.

"Yes, dear."

* * *

Root look up when her cell door opened, then sat up quickly. A woman entered the cell, but it was not Control. This woman was small, dark-haired, olive-skinned. The same woman who had watched while her gunshot wound was treated after she was captured. "You," she said sweetly. "Hello there."

The woman stopped in the center of the cell. "Hello." She sounded vaguely annoyed.

"You're new." Root cocked her head. "And a lot prettier than Control."

"Thanks."

"Are you my new interrogator?"

The woman growled. "I'm you're _playmate_."

"Ooooh." Root pulled one foot up under her on her bunk. "That sounds very promising."

"You're biting your toenails," the woman explained without enthusiasm. "And pulling your hair out. They want to make sure you don't go completely bonkers before you tell them where the Machine is."

"So thoughtful, aren't they? What's your name?"

"Shaw."

"Shaw what?"

"Just Shaw."

"You're not very friendly."

Shaw rolled her eyes. "You play chess?"

"I do, but I hate it. What else have you got?"

"Chutes and Ladders or Candyland."

Root cocked her head. "Could you get Mystery Date?"

"Probably."

"What about Grand Theft Auto?"

"No way in hell we're letting you near a video game console."

"Can't blame a girl for trying."

Shaw sighed. "Look. I gotta be in here one hour a day, five days a week. I don't gotta like it. So pick a board game and I'll bring it and we'll play. But you might as well cut the crap right now. I'm not bringing you a computer or a phone or anything else you can try to hack your way out of here with. Strictly board games, got it?"

"Poker?" Root asked.

"Sure."

"Strip poker?"

"If I want to see you naked I'll watch the monitors while you shower."

Root stuck her bottom lip out. "Are you saying you don't? That's so disappointing."

"I'm not really into girls."

"What _are_ you into?"

Shaw glared at her. "I'll bring cards tomorrow."

"And poker chips," Root added. "No point in playing if there's nothing to lose."

"Fine."

"See you tomorrow, sweetie."

As the woman left her cell, Root noticed that she had a slight limp. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"I could rub it for you."

The cell door slammed behind her visitor.

Root smiled broadly and twisted her hair again. Their plan was obvious, of course. This Shaw woman would gain her trust while pretending not to. They would share confidences, little secrets. Control hoped she would tell Shaw the Machine's secret location.

But that game was a two-way street. Control probably thought that Root couldn't learn anything about her captors from Shaw. The smaller woman seemed very competent, and confident. Some kind of trained operative. She thought she was too clever to give anything away.

But Root was very good at finding out things.

This was going to be fun.

This was going to be _so_ much fun.

* * *

Reese parked his car illegally next to the Institute's pick-up area. There were two minivans and five black livery sedans waiting to pick up the campers.

He tapped his earpiece. "I'm here, Finch. Looks like class isn't out yet."

"Good," Finch answered immediately.

"Anything new on the threat?"

"Nothing. Miss Zane's social life here in the city is sharply limited. The family has attended a number of Broadway shows and two concerts together, but she doesn't seem to have any outside friends. When you clone her phone, we may be able to learn more."

The students came out of the building. Reese picked up his own camera and peered through the viewfinder. "The younger instructor."

"Dylan Kozlow. What about him?"

"We need to take another look." Reese snapped a picture, then pressed the share button on the camera so that it was sent to Finch immediately.

Dylan Kozlow was standing very close to Helen Zane, whispering in the teenager's ear. They were both smiling.

"Oh, dear," Finch said.

* * *

"So," Dylan said, "you gonna come to the movie tonight?"

Helen grinned. He'd been talking about some outdoor movie all the way back to the Institute. "I can't. My mom would never let me."

"Tell her you're going with Hailey."

"She'll check."

"Then bring Hailey along. Come on, it will be fun. I'll bring lawn chairs. And beer."

"Beer. You really want to see Hailey with a couple beers in her?"

"She'll be fine. It's not like she'll be driving home."

Helen looked down the street, but she didn't see her driver yet.

"So you're gonna meet me there, right?" Dylan continued. "Ten o'clock."

"Dylan … I don't think so."

"Look, it's simple. Tell your mom you're going to Hailey's. Go to Hailey's. Then grab an Uber and come down and meet me. C'mon, how often do you get to see _Caddy Shack_ on the big screen? It'll be fun, I promise."

Helen had a vision of her Uncle Mickey wading through the crowd of outdoor movie watchers, grabbing Dylan and punching him in the kidney with one hand while he dragged Helen away with the other. Mickey if Dylan was lucky. Because if her mom came instead … well, getting punched in the kidney would just be the beginning of his problems.

"Ten o'clock," Dylan said again. "I'll save you a place. Call me when you get there."

"Dylan …"

"Gotta go. See you later." He trotted off and got into a car with his brother.

Helen smiled after him, but she already knew she wasn't going to go.

It wasn't that she didn't like Dylan. She did, a lot. But he was just enough older that his attention was a little creepy. And he was just pushy enough to set off her alarms.

Also, if her mother found out, she'd leave him quietly drowning in his own blood.

The risk assessment analysis wasn't even close. There was no way it was worth it.

She shrugged her backpack higher on her shoulder. Most of the other students were gone. Another livery car turned into the driveway, at the back of the line, and she trotted confidently toward it.

* * *

"Mr. Reese?"

"Dylan's gone," Reese answered. "Helen's about to be picked up." He put the camera down on the seat beside him. "She didn't seem to be in any distress. Might have been a little innocent flirting."

"Between an underage student and an assistant instructor, I'm not sure there's any such thing."

"He's only nineteen." The town car stopped directly in front of the girl. A man got out of the passenger side of the front seat. He was a big guy, older, wearing khaki slacks and a navy polo shirt. Hardly standard driver attire, and certainly not Skydd uniform. He opened the back door for the girl.

"Something's wrong, Finch." He grabbed the camera and snapped a quick picture, then dropped it, put his car into gear and pulled into the driveway behind the sedan.

He wasn't the only one who was suspicious. Helen Zane stepped back and looked around quickly as she spoke to the man. He gave some answer, but she didn't like it. She took another step back.

The man grabbed her arm.

Reese swerved around the sedan, cut in front of it sideways, and put his car in park. He jumped out with his stolen badge.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch worried in his ear.

"Hold it," Reese ordered, rounding the car to the sidewalk.

The man curled his lip. "Who are you?"

"Stills. NYPD. Need to see your livery license."

"This man isn't my driver," Helen Zane said clearly.

"Let her go." Reese stepped closer and reached for his gun.

"Her mom sent me to pick her up." The man tightened his grip and tried to muscle her into the car. "Get in, we're late."

"She would never do that," the girl said. Her voice was high, tense, but still clear, and she spoke directly to Reese.

John heard the driver's side door open. He aimed his gun at the driver without looking. "Get back in the car and close the door," he said.

Helen turned and brought her knee up sharply into her would-be kidnapper's groin.

He shouted, released her arm, and doubled over. Reese grabbed the girl and pulled her against his chest.

The man fell into the car. The driver reversed quickly, before the door even closed, and sped away.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch said again, very quietly.

"You're okay," Reese told the girl, wrapping his arms around her.

He expected her to be upset, maybe hysterical. She was definitely agitated, but very much in control. She backed away and looked him up and down. "You're a cop?"

He handed her Stills' badge and let her examine it while he put his gun away. "Who were those men?"

"I don't know."

"A driver was supposed to come for you?"

"Yes. And he's always on time. Always."

"There's a major accident just north of your location, Mr. Reese," Finch provided.

"He may be stuck in traffic. There's a big pile-up just north of here," Reese repeated. He took the badge back. "I think I'd better drive you home."

"He'll be here."

"Those men just tried to kidnap you. You have any idea why?"

The teenager shook her head. "I don't …I don't know." She went pale. Reese thought she might be lying, but she might also just be scared. "I'm not even from here. I don't know anybody …"

John took her arm again. "Come on. I'll drive you home."

The girl looked around. She seemed to be appraising the situation, with surprising calm under the circumstances. There were only a few students and cars left. She looked back at Reese and nodded. "Okay. Detective …"

"Stills. What's your name?"

"Helen. Helen Zane."

"It's nice to meet you, Helen Zane."

He opened the car door for her.

"Mr. Reese," Finch worried, "are you sure it's wise to get so close to our subject?"

John didn't answer. He couldn't, of course, with the girl right beside him in the car. Instead, Reese said, "You should probably call your driver and let him know you're okay."

"Yeah." The young woman sounded thoughtful or dazed; Finch couldn't tell which. "I'll call my mom. She makes all the arrangements."

"That's a good idea."

"She's testing you," Finch provided in his partner's ear. "If you'd objected to her making the call …"

"Uh-huh," Reese replied absently. But the message was clear: _I've done this before, Finch._

Finch sat back. Of course John understood the situation. He needed to stop verbally jostling his partner's elbow. Instead he pulled the photo in from John's digital camera.

"Which way am I going?" Reese asked Helen.

"North."

"Okay."

Harold frowned at the image on his screen. The man's image was blurry; Reese had not had time to focus the camera. The girl was only a little clearer. But the front end of the car was fairly sharp, and with it most of the license plate.

"Mom?" he heard the young lady say into her phone. "It's Helen. Listen, Mom … no, I know, he was late, this other guy showed up, these two guys, they tried to get me in their car … to pull me in … no, I'm fine. _Mom_ , I'm okay, I'm fine, there was this cop here and he chased them off. And he's bringing me home."

There was a little pause. "Oh. Okay, I'll ask him." Then, to John, "Can you take me to my aunt's house? That's where my mom is."

"Sure. Where is it?"

"Brooklyn Heights."

Reese nodded and took the next right turn.

"Mom?" Helen continued. "He said okay … Detective Stiles …"

"Stills," Reese corrected quietly.

"Sorry, Stills ... yeah. No, Mom, I'm fine."

"Still testing you," Finch observed quietly. Reese made a quiet noise of agreement.

It was puzzling. This teenage girl had just escaped being kidnapped by two strange men. Yet she was not panicked. She was testing her rescuer. There was much more to this young woman than they'd uncovered.

But first things first. He listened as Helen continued her call, but his attention focused on the license plate in the photo.

"Livery tag," Finch mused aloud.

Over the com, Reese grunted. "Do you want me to talk to her?" he offered to the girl.

"Do you want to talk to him, Mom?" After a pause, she answered, "Only if you need to. Otherwise she says you can talk when we get there."

"That's fine."

Finch picked up his phone and dialed Detective Fusco. The man answered on the fifth ring. "What?" He sounded profoundly annoyed.

"Good afternoon, Detective."

"Look, Suits, I'm up to my ass in dead bodies and paperwork here. What do you want? And it better not be anything about cleaning up after your maniac partner."

"I merely needed to ask you to run a license plate for me, Detective."

"You're a computer supergenius. Why can't you find that out for yourself?"

Finch grimaced. "Because the DMV's computer system is a hopelessly outdated abomination of machines and programs kludged together with baling twine and duct tape, as far as I can determine, and it's a miracle it functions at all, much less enables access from outside parties."

"Huh. Well maybe somebody should write them a big check and help them fix it."

"I don't think even I have that much money, Detective, and certainly I don't have the patience to cut through the red tape such a donation would no doubt entail."

Fusco sighed. "Fine. What's the number?"

Finch read it off the screen. "It's a livery vehicle, a black town car."

"Yeah," Fusco answered, "Midtown Livery, and it was reported stolen twenty minutes ago."

"I don't suppose there's a police report available?"

The detective snorted. "In about a week, when we have the manpower free to go take one. If you're lucky."

"I see."

"In case you haven't noticed, there's a heat wave going on. Which means people are a little short-tempered. Which means all kinds of random crime is going on. We're running our asses off."

"I understand, Detective. I wish you luck."

"Yeah, well. Less wishes, more help."

"We are helping. As well as we're able."

"Uh-huh." There was a buzz on the call, and Fusco swore under his breath. "That's another one. I gotta go."

"Thank you for your help."

"Yep." The call went dead.

Finch turned his attention back to Mr. Reese's feed.

There was silence.

"Mr. Reese?" he said softly into the com. "John?"

No response. No static, no background noise. Nothing.

"John!" Harold called. "Are you alright? John?"

Only ominous silence came back to him.


	8. Chapter 8

Reese detected the change in the tone of the white noise in his ear. It was very subtle; it took him a minute to be sure over the sound of the car's engine and the nearby traffic. He tapped at his earpiece. It clicked off and on, but there was no word from Finch.

John glanced at the girl. She had her phone in her lap and her backpack between her feet. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing." He looked in the mirror. "Just making sure we're not followed."

Helen twisted to look over her seat. "Oh, God."

"There's no one back there," Reese assured her. "You doing okay?"

From the corner of his eye he saw the girl nod.

"I need you to think," he continued. "Are you absolutely sure you haven't seen that guy before?"

"I'm sure." Helen sounded both certain and a little defensive.

"Nobody following you? Maybe hanging around the neighborhood that was out of place?"

"No."

"Hang up phone calls, strange texts, anything like that."

" _No_."

Reese glanced over again. The girl stared fixedly out through the windshield. She was rigid, tense. Angry. That was how some people dealt with fear. John didn't blame her for being afraid. "You're okay now," he assured her. "I won't let anybody hurt you."

The girl glanced over at him. Her eyes were very wide. She was afraid, no matter how tough she tried to seem. Reese gave her his best crooked smile.

"Sorry," Helen muttered.

She went silent after that. Reese left her alone. He focused his attention on the traffic around them, but there was still no sign of a tail. The men who had tried to snatch Helen Zane seemed more muscle than skill. They hadn't expected her to put up a fight. And they sure hadn't planned on John being there.

There were days when liked his job very much, and this was one of them.

He tapped his earpiece again. There was still no response. Battery issue, he thought uneasily, or a short in a wire. He was used to Finch's equipment working flawlessly, but either of those things was possible. Or maybe there was a widespread cell phone outage unrelated to their case. That made more sense.

The thugs who'd tried to snatch Helen didn't seem like the kind who could black out cell service.

He knew his partner would be worried, but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.

* * *

"You got her?" Gusev barked.

"No." Misha's voice sounded odd, strained. "She got away."

"She's a teenage girl. How'd she get away?"

"Some guy showed up. A cop."

"A cop. What cop?"

"Some detective."

"You should have shot him."

There was a pause. "We getting' paid enough to shoot cops, Boss?"

"You see where they went?" Gusev growled.

"No. We had to go."

The boss sighed deeply. "Get your asses back here. We need a new plan."

* * *

The further they got from the school, the more anxious the teenager became. She gave John a few directions, but little else. Finally Helen said, "You should drop me off here."

"What?"

"The house is right up that street there. You should drop me here."

Reese shook his head. "I'll take you home."

"My mom has zero chill," the girl protested. "If you turn up at the door …"

"She's already expecting me," Reese argued. "I'll explain the situation to her."

"It was probably nothing …"

"Those men attempted to abduct you," he said firmly. "I'm going to talk to your mother about it."

"This is a bad idea."

"You're not in any trouble. You didn't do anything wrong."

The teenager sighed heavily.

Reese looked over. The girl's mouth was set in a tight line. "You're safe now. I'll make sure you stay that way."

Resigned, she gestured. "That drive."

John turned and stopped in front of a ten-foot high iron gate. At either side there was a high stone wall that circled the entire yard. He rolled his window down and glanced at the teen for the entrance code. She shook her head. "I don't know it. Mom always drives." She leaned toward the window, and called, "Mom, it's me. I forgot the code. Let us in."

There was a short pause, and then the gate clicked open.

Reese drove up to the house and parked next to the family's black SUV. There was space for at least six more cars there. The house was huge, and the yard and gardens were spacious and very well-kept. As he got out of the car he caught the faintest scent of chlorine; there was obviously a pool behind the house.

It was the kind of house Will Ingram could have lived in, if he'd been so inclined.

Reese wondered who the aunt who owned this place was. Finch had missed her, somehow. Of course, the very wealthy could afford to hide their digital footprints better than the average citizen. Finch was living proof of that.

Helen looked over the top of the car at him. "You should go." She seemed seriously worried now.

"I'll talk to your mother," Reese repeated calmly.

"Zero chill," the girl reminded him grimly. She walked beside him up to the front door. It opened before they got there, and Elizabeth Zane took two steps out and gathered her daughter in her arms. "Helen, what happened?" she said. "What's going on?"

Reese stepped closer. The mother half-turned, putting her daughter behind her shoulder. He showed his stolen badge. "I'm Detective Stills, NYPD."

"Detective? What happened?"

"There's been a bit of an incident. Helen's not hurt. But we do need to talk. May I come in?"

She moved back into the house, herding her daughter through the door without turning her back on him. "Yes, please do."

Reese heard a soft growl behind him. He turned and saw two large Rottweilers climbing the porch steps, heads down, fur bristling.

"Halt," Elizabeth Zane said firmly. The dogs both stopped exactly where they were. "Please, come in."

John followed her across the threshold. He paused to look over his shoulder at the dogs. They were beautiful, powerful, and perfectly trained. He liked dogs …

Lightning struck, and then it was dark.

* * *

"Mr. Reese," Finch said urgently. "Mr. Reese!"

There was still no answer. There had been no answer for – Finch checked his dashboard clock – eighteen minutes. He pressed his foot a little heavier on the accelerator.

If he were strictly logical about the situation, as he always strove to be, it was much too soon to be this concerned. Mr. Reese's communications link might have been interrupted for any number of reasons. Perhaps he'd turned his phone off deliberately, though Finch could not imagine why. Perhaps he'd inadvertently bumped it off. Perhaps his battery was dead. Or he was in a cellular dead zone.

Or perhaps there was a secret government operation of some kind nearby that interfered with common communication devices …

Finch shook his head. He was reaching. Each theory was more unlikely that the last. He hated guessing, and with the evidence he had – guessing was his only option.

He drove faster still.

He already knew Reese and the girl wouldn't be at the address. Helen Zane had said something about going to an aunt's house. But his research hadn't turned up anything about any relatives in the city. He would need to get their location from whoever was at the residence that he did know about. If there was no one home, he'd need to find a note or other clue. Hopefully there would be a computer, with an address book and an easy password. He needed to get the aunt's address quickly.

He diverted himself by developing a cover story for himself. It was difficult, since he didn't know what kind of trouble Reese had encountered. If he'd even encountered any trouble at all. _So_ , Finch thought, _you're a middle-aged widow from a small town with four children, and someone just tried to abduct your oldest daughter off the street, but a strange man claiming to be a police detective rescued her and brought her to you. And now a second man arrives at the front door, having tracked you to a place where you don't live, an older, crippled, innocuous, friendly-looking man – and he tells you he's …_

He swerved around a car that was trying to turn left, badly.

 _He tells you he's … ah. From the Institute. No, not from, she'd run background checks on everyone from the Institute. On behalf of the Institute. Better. They'd called him about an issue, someone approached the girl and he was making sure that she'd gotten home safely, and also of course he'd want to thank the detective for his timely intervention, and assure the mother that every precaution had been taken …_

That was good, as a rough outline. That would work. He would need a name. Crow, he decided. He could be, if pressed, a private investigator working security on behalf of the camp's insurer. But he doubted it would go that far. The girl would probably be rattled, and the mother as well. He and John could reassure them, smooth this over. If they could get Elizabeth to keep her daughter home for a few days, it would be easier to keep her safe.

He parked the car, double-checked the address, and hurried up the stairs to the front door. He rang the bell and heard it sound inside, but there was nothing else. No voices, no footsteps. He rang again, and then knocked.

Nothing.

Finch looked around. No one was paying any attention. He concealed his hands close to his body and picked the lock.

Of course, if anyone was home and already frightened, he was likely to be greeted with a shotgun blast.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

No gunfire. Nothing. Cautiously, Finch stepped inside.

He knew almost immediately that the house was empty. Not only that no one was home at the time, but that no one lived there at all. It had the sound and feel of one of his safe houses. Perfectly furnished, move-in ready, but no one had moved in. He looked around the comfortable living room. Not a single throw pillow was out of place. Not a single footprint on the plush carpet. No family of five lived here, nor had in the recent past.

"Hello?" Finch called, without hope.

He checked his phone. It was the correct address. He'd known it was.

He moved through the room and into the kitchen. The sink was perfectly dry. The dish towels hanging on the bar still had the creases in them. He eased the dishwasher open. It was empty. The refrigerator was running, cold, but also empty. The freezer contained only ice cubes.

Elizabeth Zane had rented this three-bedroom town house for the summer, at significant expense. It was the address listed on every camp registration form she'd completed. But she and her children had not spent one minute here.

Which meant that he had no way of knowing where John Reese had taken Helen Zane.

The aunt's house. Brooklyn Heights. Maybe they were all living there … but then why go to the expense of renting this place at all?

His anxiety on his partner's behalf doubled, and now it had a reasonable basis.

Finch hurried out. He still had one more way of tracking his partner. Reese wouldn't like it, and once it was activated he would likely know about it, but it was the only option now.

He glanced up at a traffic camera. "I don't suppose you have any suggestions," he muttered.

The red light blinked at him steadily.

"I didn't think so." He started down the front steps.

As he reached the sidewalk, a phone rang. Finch turned quickly. Three doors down there was an ancient pay phone. He looked up at the camera again. The red light blinked implacably. The phone continued to ring.

He hurried to it.

The mechanical voice gave him key words in the usual combination. A new Number.

Finch shook his head as he hung up the receiver. "I'm sorry. I can't help them until I find John."

He took two steps. The phone rang again.

Finch scowled at the camera this time. But he went back and answered the phone again.

Key words again, but different ones. A second Number.

Finch memorized them and hung up the phone.

"Are you helping?" he asked the camera. "Or are there just more people in trouble?"

The blinking eye did not answer.

He genuinely couldn't help them until he found John. But he had to return to the library anyhow; he could at least look up their names.

Finch walked to his car, fully expecting the phone to ring again. It did not.

* * *

Reese tried to be still when he woke up. He kept his eyes closed, controlled his breathing. He was sitting up. His head was forward, his chin on his chest. He could feel pressure on his wrists, narrow. Zip ties. His feet were apart. Without moving, he could not feel for certain if his feet were tied. His throat hurt a little. There was a peculiar, familiar taste in his mouth. Chloral hydrate. That explained his vague nausea, too.

Lightning – a taser – and then chloral hydrate. Mother Zane had been waiting for him. He wondered which of the words in Helen's phone call had tipped her off.

It was very quiet. No traffic noises, no voices. No air movement around him. No brightness through his eyelids and no areas of heat on his skin. Cool, but stuffy. Definitely indoors. He might be alone. That would give him time …

A phone chirped. He heard a woman's voice, soft. "You got them?" And then, "Yeah, we're secure. See you when you get here." A click, a soft sound of a phone being set down. Then, only a little louder, the woman said, "Back with us, Handsome?"

Reese opened his eyes but didn't move his head.

His jacket was off. His wrists were secured to the arms of the chair with zip ties. He'd expected that. His elbows were also bound. He hadn't expected that. He flexed the muscles in his ankles. They were secured to the chair legs. All the ties were loose enough for comfort, but not nearly loose enough to escape.

 _Break the chair._

The chair was heavy, metal. He'd never be able to dent it, let alone break it.

He lifted his head. The mother, Elizabeth, sat on a wooden stool in front of a mostly-empty workbench and looked at him calmly. His car was parked to his left, behind a battered blue minivan. From the dim lighting, the garage doors were closed.

 _Wait for Finch._

Behind her on the workbench he could see his jacket, neatly folded. His phone and his earpiece were laid out beside it. The battery was out of the phone. If Finch was coming, he'd be coming in blind.

She had also taken both of his guns, his ankle knife, his car keys, his watch, his wallet and his badge.

 _Talk your way out._

Reese tried to speak. Only a painful squeak emerged. He tried to work up enough spit to swallow. His mouth was too dry.

The woman picked up a bottle of water and took the top off, then stepped forward and held it to his lips.

He turned his face away.

She lifted the bottle to her own lips and drank. Then she offered it to him again.

Reese drank. She held the bottle long enough for him to get two good swallows. Then she drew back while he caught a breath before she gave him one more drink.

She moved back out of his reach. As if he _could_ reach her, with those plastic ties firmly in place.

"I think …" Reese began. He stopped, swallowed, cleared his throat. "There's been some misunderstanding."

The woman didn't answer.

"My name is Detective Stills," he continued. "I'm with the NYPD. I didn't mean to alarm you. Your daughter was being harassed by two men at the Institute and I …"

Elizabeth took two steps and gave him another drink. "Let's not," she answered quietly. Then she stepped back again and waited.

Both her voice and her posture seemed familiar. She was completely still. Focused, attentive. Watchful. But she knew she was in control. She was relaxed. Not wasting any energy. She could watch him just like this, all day long, without exhausting herself.

The look in her eyes. She was concerned, and she was afraid. But she was not panicked. She was thinking. Assessing. Waiting for the next thing.

 _She's a pro._

Every aspect of his current situation confirmed that. Whoever Elizabeth Zane was, she'd had as much training as Reese himself, and as much experience. His mind flashed to Kara Stanton, but that wasn't who this woman reminded him of. Kara had been impatient, impulsive. Kara didn't wait to see what happened if she could act instead.

This woman reminded Reese of himself.

He went silent and studied her.

She remained silent and studied him.

 _You're screwed, John._

He'd had the best of intentions. He'd only been trying to help. But he had arrived here, armed and uninvited, and put himself between a young girl and her mother. And the mother had unexpectedly effective means of neutralizing the threat that she thought he represented.

He didn't see any way out.

"I'm not trying to hurt your daughter," he told her honestly. "She was in danger. I was trying to help." He tugged lightly at his restraints. "There's no need for all this, I promise."

Elizabeth regarded him for a long moment before she spoke. "Who are you?"

"Detective …"

She shook her head. "If you're going to steal an identity, don't steal one from a cop whose missing posters are all over the internet."

Reese licked his lips. "My name is John Randall. I work in private security."

"Better," Elizabeth said. "Still not the truth, but better. Who do you work for?"

"I'm freelance, but I do a lot of my work for insurance companies."

"Any company in specific?"

He could give her Universal Heritage. That would lead her to Finch. It might help him. Tell Harold where he was, at least. But she was dangerous, and he wouldn't put Harold at risk to save himself. He shook his head.

"Back in my day," Elizabeth offered, "we called it American Life Insurance Company. Julia Child started came up with that."

 _So she's not only former intelligence_ , Reese thought _, but she's specifically former CIA_. That might be very good. It might be very bad. It would depend on how and why she'd left the Agency. "I don't work for them any more."

"Who do you work for?" she asked again.

Reese did not answer.

They shared another very long silence.

This time the woman spoke first. "Okay, let's try this." She picked up the water bottle and held it to his mouth, but as he leaned forward to drink she pulled it away.

She picked up the knife. Reese watched as she lowered the blade toward his hand. She flipped it over and ran the sharp tip down the back of his wrist. It left a white scratch; she didn't press hard enough even to draw blood.

He looked up at her, surprised.

Elizabeth raised her free hand and pulled his hair gently. Then she pinched his ear lobe between her thumb and forefinger and twisted lightly.

She stepped back and put the knife down. "Now you can tell them I subjected you to a variety of tortures before you gave them up."

Reese gave her a fleeting smile. "That's the best you can do?"

The woman shrugged. "We both know that I could flay you with a potato peeler and all it would get me is a pile of skin and a big stain on the floor. I'd rather save myself the clean-up."

"I appreciate that," he answered sincerely.

"Tell me who you are. And why you came after me."

"I didn't come after you," Reese told her. "I don't even know who you are. Who you used to be. We got a warning that your daughter was in danger. The guy tried to get her into his car. I stepped in, showed her the badge so she wouldn't be scared, and brought her home." He opened his hands. "You know the rest."

"Who's we?"

John didn't answer.

"Where did this warning come from?"

He couldn't tell her that either.

Elizabeth, or whatever her name was, wasn't angry. She seemed to understand, as Reese did, that there was nothing personal in this interaction. They were just two professionals negotiating an impasse.

She folded her arms, prepared to wait. Reese shifted, got a little more comfortable in the hard chair. He was prepared to wait, too.

There was a sudden loud alarm. They both jumped. Elizabeth pulled out her own cell phone and studied it, then waved it close to him. The alarm grew softer. She turned back to the work bench and ran it over the items there. It got loudest closest to his car keys.

Reese groaned out loud.

Elizabeth dropped the keys on the concrete floor and stomped the key fob with her heel. The alarm stopped abruptly.

She picked the keys up and dropped them on the workbench again. "Who's coming for you, John?"

 _Finch_ , Reese thought hopelessly. _Finch planted a tracker on me, one that remained inert until he activated it. He lost contact, he tried everything else, and then he activated it. And now he's coming. To try to save me. He's coming right into your trap._

He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing with all his will that Finch would stay away. But he knew there was no hope of that. He had no way to warn him that this ordinary-seeming mother was most certainly _not_ ordinary.

When he opened his eyes, Elizabeth was still at the work bench. She picked through the remnants of the key fob, clearly without much hope. Her posture had changed. There was a new tension in her shoulders. She'd been watchful before, curious, observant. Now she was done waiting.

She walked over and crouched in front of him, put one hand on his knee, and looked him straight in the eye. "Here's where I am. You're clearly trained. You came after me – after my kids. You won't tell me why, or who you are, or who you work for. And now back-up's on its way. So I don't have a lot of choices."

Reese nodded his understanding. She had _one_ choice, and in her position, he would have made the same one. If he told her the truth, if she believed him, she might spare his life. But he could not tell her anything without endangering Harold.

He remained silent.

"Please," Elizabeth said. "Please give me something, anything, that gives me some reason to reconsider."

John studied her eyes. They were sincere, troubled. Determined. But there was a certain warmth in them. An acknowledgement that she knew his position, too. She was protecting hers. He was protecting his. They were professionals, the two of them. They understood each other well.

This close, he could see that she wasn't as old as she looked. That the too-dark hair and the too-pale makeup were intentional. There wasn't one woman in a million who would deliberately make herself look older. It was a good disguise.

 _Who are you? Who are you hiding from?_

He was going to die not knowing the answers. He felt some regret about that. About dying in general. But he'd always expected to die. Elizabeth would make it quick, he was certain. He would not suffer.

And though she was wrong, she genuinely believed she was killing him for a noble cause: The protection of her children.

That was far more than he had any right to expect.

But Finch – Finch _would_ come, and this mother had already decided she had to kill him, too. "My … handler. My friend. You're right. He'll be coming. He'll look for me. But just him. Alone. There's no one else."

Her eyes narrowed, glinted hard.

"He doesn't know who you are, either. Who you used to work for. We just wanted to protect Helen. He's not an operative. He's not any threat to you. If you hide my body, destroy the phone, tell him I was never here – tell him Helen stole the car – he's no threat to you. Please."

"Why should I believe you?"

"You shouldn't believe me. You know what I am. But H – he's not one of us. He just wants to help people. If you meet him – you're a good judge of people. You knew what I was the minute you laid eyes on me. You'll know. Just talk to him. Let him talk to you. He's a good man. I swear. He doesn't always believe it, but he is. He's the best man I've ever known. Please. Don't kill him."

"What's his name?" she asked quietly.

"Harold. His name's Harold."

"Harold what?"

Reese did not answer.

"Who does he work for? What does he want?"

Reese remained silent, because he could not give her those answers. She would try to get them from Harold, of course. But he knew from the way she'd treated him that she as genuinely decent. And Finch was very good with words. He had _some_ chance, if he actually got to speak.

Elizabeth considered for a long moment. "I'll talk to him," she finally promised. "I may kill him anyhow, but I'll talk to him first. But if he won't tell me any more than you did …"

Reese took a deep breath. "Believe me, if I could tell you more I would."

"I believe you." She stood up and put her hand on his shoulder. Reese leaned into it. It was all the comfort there would be. That he would die at the hands of another professional. One who understood why he could not speak, even to save his own life. One who respected his silence.

One who had no interest in his suffering. One who would be quick and clean and merciful.

She walked to the workbench and picked up his knife again.

Reese raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Always thought I'd die by gunshot."

Elizabeth gave him a little wry smile. "If you'd ever seen me fire a gun, you'd be thanking me for the knife. Much faster, I promise."

"I'll take your word for it."

She walked behind his chair. Reese closed his eyes. It was inevitable, this death. He was not afraid. Much.

He waited for the blade.

Instead, there was a loud, urgent knock on the door.

Elizabeth's hand fell on his shoulder again. "Hold that thought," she sighed. And toward the door Reese could not see, she called, "Mickey?"

"No, it's Scott." The voice was male, agitated.

The woman swore under her breath. "Kinda busy in here. What do you want?"

"I need to talk to you. Like, right now."

"Scott …"

"About what you're busy with."

She walked away from John. There was the snap of a deadbolt, the creak of a door opening a few inches. "How'd you get past the gate?" Elizabeth said softly.

"It's my sister's house. I have the code."

"What do you want?"

"Helen called." He matched the low level of her voice, but it was quiet enough in the space that Reese caught every word. "She said you had a man tied up in the garage."

The door creaked open a few more inches.

"Shit!" the man exclaimed. "Who is that?"

"I don't know, and he's not telling."

John turned his head, but the door was almost directly behind him and in shadows. He could see part of the woman's back, nothing more.

"Helen said he was a cop."

"He's not a cop."

"So what, you're just going to kill him? Take the kids and run?"

The woman remained silent.

"Oh, shit."

"Go inside, Scott."

John considered calling out for help, but from the sound of the conversation, it wouldn't do him any good. The woman was willing to kill him even though her daughter knew he was there. This newcomer wasn't going to change her mind.

 _I wish my Scotty was here,_ Reese thought. _My Christine. She'd be a lot more helpful than this Scott, whoever he is._

And then he was glad she was safely far away.

The door creaked again. "No, wait, listen." The creaking paused. "Right after I hung up with Helen, Becky called. She said … she said she was going to bring over some jambalaya and she'll make cheddy biscuits when she gets here. She said she'll bring lots and you should invite your guests to stay for dinner."

" _Guests_ , plural?" Elizabeth sounded deeply surprised.

"That's what she said."

There was a very long pause.

Reese had time to wonder who Becky was, and why she thought Elizabeth would have _guests, plural,_ for dinner, and why her offer of jambalaya was giving them both such cause for thought.

Elizabeth finally said, "It's been a long time."

"A really long time," the unseen Scott agreed. "So, um, maybe you want to hold off on … you know? Until she gets here?"

"I suppose so." The woman sighed, in what Reese hoped was relief. "Go back inside. Let me know when she gets here. And send Mickey out."

"Mickey's coming?"

"He heard there'd be jambalaya."

Scott chuckled. The door creaked and stopped again. "Oh. She also said she'd bring soup bones for the dogs. And she'll bring an extra one."

"Really." Elizabeth sounded almost amused now.

"You weren't really going to kill him, were you?"

"Scott."

"I know, I know. Just …"

"If I end up killing him, I'll make sure you never know about it, okay?"

"Thanks, Lil."

The door closed.

 _Lil?_ Reese though. _Liz_ he could see, a common short for Elizabeth. But Lil?

So she wasn't using her real first name. That suggested that her first name was distinctive enough to give her away.

 _Who's after you, Mrs. Zane?_

She walked past him and put the knife down. "Apparently we're going to have a small delay," she said, half-apologetically.

"I'm in no hurry," Reese assured her.

"You like jambalaya?"

"It just became my favorite food."

She gave him another drink of water. "Anything else you need?"

"I could use to stretch my legs a little."

Elizabeth gave him a little smile. "Don't make me like you. I don't want to like you." She sat down on her stool to wait.

"John," he said.

"What?"

"My name," Reese said. "It's not John Randall, but it is John."

"I still don't want to like you, John."


	9. Chapter 9

Finch stared at the map on his screen. The tracker signal had appeared, just as designed, when he activated it. Then it had vanished again.

There was no longer any doubt in his mind that his partner was in serious trouble.

He hit the 'back' button until the location of the tracker re-appeared, then saved the screen before he zoomed in. It was twenty blocks from the address Mrs. Zane had provided for her children. A very tony neighborhood, very large single houses with fenced yards, swimming pools. Houses with staff. It was where the one-percenters who didn't live in penthouses lived.

Finch had been to a home in that neighborhood once. On that same street.

He'd attended a party there. With Grace Hendricks.

The 'aunt' Helen had referred to had considerably more income than Finch had anticipated. In any case, he had to get there.

He should take a weapon with him. He opened his desk drawer and brought out a little canister of pepper spray. It wasn't a great weapon, he acknowledged, but it was something.

Bear hurried over and sat at his feet.

He hated to think of the dog as a weapon. But the Malnois was very well-trained, and frequently useful as a diversion. "Yes," he decided, "you can come."

The dog wagged his tail happily. Then he hurried off, down the stairs. Finch knew that behavior: Bear was going out to the little courtyard to relieve himself before they left. A device in his collar opened the dog door for him. It would delay them for a minute or two, but it would save time later.

His cell phone chirped. Finch scowled. It was the alert the Machine used to tell him it had a Number for him. He already had two new Numbers, and no time for either of them. But the AI would continue to alert him every fifteen minutes until he received the information.

He was desperate to get to Mr. Reese. But he had to wait for Bear anyhow. He hurried to get the indicated books.

By the time he got back to his desk, Bear had returned and was waiting eagerly. "One moment," Finch said. He sat down and typed in the first number.

A woman's name came up. Laurie Webster. An address in Brooklyn. A drivers' license photo dated 1988. There was nothing more recent. No activity at all on that Social Security number after 1989.

Finch stared at the picture for a long time. A woman in her late twenties with long, light blonde hair. She was very pretty.

Bear nuzzled his hand, ready to go.

"Wait," Finch said absently. He sent the image to the printer, then typed in the second Number.

Liesl Horvath was the same age, with pale brunette hair, short. Also very pretty. She also had no activity after 1989.

Harold took a deep breath. He printed the second photo, then stood and walked to the board. He put the two photos side-by-side. Then he removed the photo of the mother, Elizabeth Zane, and put it between the two.

"Oh, dear."

She was older, of course. But all three photos unquestionably showed the same woman.

Finch stood up, grabbed the leash, and snapped it onto Bear's collar as they hurried down the stairs.

* * *

"Uncle Scott?" Sarah said.

Scott jiggled the door handle to make sure it was locked. "It's okay," he said. He was surprised how calm his voice sounded. Old habit, he supposed. "Your mom's okay."

"Is the cop?" Helen asked drily.

"For the moment." He tried to make it seem like he was kidding. "Where are the boys?"

"Uncle Mickey's bringing them."

"Good."

"Do we really have to leave?" the older girl asked.

"Mom said we had to pack," the younger one added.

"I don't want to go home," Helen finished.

Scott shook his head. He'd been an only child – as far as he'd known when he was a child – and had only had one child himself. The way these children finished each other's thoughts was unnerving. It was worse when all four of them were there. "We're … still sorting that out," he said. "Aunt Becky's on her way, too. With any luck we can find out what's going on, maybe still save the summer."

"It's all Helen's fault," Sarah pouted.

"I didn't do anything wrong!" her sister insisted.

"Stop," Scott said. "Just stop." He moved away from the garage door and the girls followed. "Look, I don't know that you'll have to go home. But I do know that your mom is already on edge and she doesn't need you bickering. Or disobeying. You all made a deal when she brought you down here that you'd do exactly what you were told, remember?"

"But it's so _unfair_! I've got horseback riding Monday."

"You can ride horses at home," her sister snapped.

"Listen, both of you. We'll try, all of us. If there's a real threat then you have to go. If there's not, if this is just some misunderstanding, some coincidence, then we'll reason with her. But if your mom told you to pack – go pack. Just do what she asked. It'll be a lot easier for her to change her mind if she doesn't think you're being defiant."

"Mom taught us to think for ourselves," Helen pointed out.

"Then think for yourself. Your mom is on high alert. She's already got one foot across the border. Do you want to give her any excuse to go? Or do you want her to know that, even if you don't like it, you'll do what she decides is best?"

"But it's not fair!" Helen argued.

"No," Sarah said solemnly, "he's right. It's better if we're all packed. Mom'll be less pissed."

"Language, Sarah."

The girls looked at each other. "Fine," Sarah finally said.

She moved towards the stairs. Helen remained. "Uncle Scott …"

He knew what she was going to ask. "She's got him tied up, but she hasn't hurt him."

"I think … I really think he was just trying to help."

"Maybe so. We'll find out."

The girl still hesitated. "Is this … what they were like before? My parents?"

Scott took a deep breath. _Dangerous and determined? Oh, yes_. Helen's parents had been exactly like that. So had his own father, and Mickey. And he'd been older than Helen when he realized exactly how deadly they all could be. "Efficient?" he suggested. "Yeah. They were."

She made a little face and swallowed, hard. "I didn't mean … to get him killed."

Scott put his hand on her shoulder. "He's not dead. He probably won't be. We just need to sort this out." He remembered what Lily had told him: if she had to kill the man in the garage, she'd make sure he never found out about it. She would make doubly sure her children never knew. "It'll be okay. Go get your stuff together."

Helen sighed heavily, then shrugged and followed her siblings upstairs.

A small alarm sounded. Scott glanced at the monitor by the door, then gratefully went out to greet Mickey and herd the boys.

It had been a long time since there had been guns and danger all around him, but it was all coming back to him much too fast.

* * *

There was a sound at the door behind him. Not a knock, but a scratch. Elizabeth heard it, too; she turned and picked up Reese's gun, racked a round, and held it in both hands, low, ready.

She knew her way around a firearm, but she seemed uneasy with it.

The lock snapped and the door creaked open, fairly fast. The gun came up.

"Put that down," a man said without concern, "before you shoot yourself."

"Bite me," Elizabeth answered. She lowered the gun. "Did you talk to Scott?"

"Sure did. Cheddy biscuits. I'm happy."

His voice was deep, a little scratchy. He sounded older, and he had just the faintest hint of a southwestern twang.

"About the guests," the woman prompted. Her posture changed; she was suddenly a lot more at ease. Whoever the man was – Reese didn't bother to turn, he could tell from his voice he was still in the shadows, out of sight – Elizabeth trusted him completely.

"Yeah. That's been a long time."

"Uh-huh. You got the boys?"

"They're inside. All safe."

She gestured toward Reese. "He yours?"

The man strode slowly past Reese and turned around. He was older, as expected, somewhere north of sixty, definitely older than Elizabeth. From the look of his skin they'd been hard years. He had deep wrinkles, an extra twenty or thirty pounds, and he moved like he had a lot of old wounds. Something not quite right with his legs. His hair was sandy mixed with gray and was a little long. It looked like it had been unruly every day of his life. He sported about a week's worth of grizzled stubble.

He wore old jeans and a faded black t-shirt and work boots.

He might have been the gardener, the handyman. Except he wasn't.

John had met him before. Heard his name a dozen times. Mickey Kostmayer. Quiet, unassuming, easy to overlook. Deadly. Very senior field operative, Central Intelligence Agency.

And also – retired. Which might, possibly, be Reese's salvation.

But he'd retired on good terms. It had been years back, before Ordos. Something about knee replacement. He remembered Kira smirking his name, something about finally turning the old bastard out to pasture. If he was collecting a pension, he might be inclined to collect a bonus by turning in an op who'd strayed off the reservation.

The man took the gun from Elizabeth's hand. Her willingness to give it up confirmed that Reese had already guessed about her: She was Agency, too, or had been.

 _But she thinks the Agency's coming for her – and here's Kostmayer, and she just handed over her weapon._

Kostmayer turned and looked at Reese for a long moment. "Yeah, he's ours." He checked the gun and put it on the bench. "Or he used to be. Until he got himself dead in China a few years back."

"The Company still hasn't learned to check its kills."

"Uh-huh. His partner was supposed to be dead, too. Made it kind of hard to explain why they were scraping little bits of her DNA off three square blocks of Manhattan last year." The man did not seem at all saddened about that fact.

 _A safe house in Kiev. Stanton was washing her hands in the kitchen sink; blood ran in dark trickles down the drain. She was laughing, sweaty, giddy with cooling bloodlust. They had left a hell of a mess behind. Snow came into the room, quick and quiet, trying to shush her, and then Kostmayer entered. He'd looked much like he did now, soft, scruffy and unthreatening. Only the dangerous glint in his eye gave away his status and his power. "What the fuck happened?" he said quietly._

 _Stanton looked him up and down, decided he was a nobody, and went on washing her hands. "They resisted. We killed them."_

 _"I wasn't talking to you," he said, still quietly. He looked John over, then he turned to Snow. "We wanted them alive."_

 _"Like she said," Snow answered, his voice edged with tension, "they resisted. We had no choice."_

 _"There's always a choice." He looked at Reese again. "How long you been with us, son?"_

 _"About a year," John answered carefully. He'd met the man once, briefly, years before, when he was still in uniform. He was impressed that he'd remembered him._

 _"There's always a choice," Kostmayer repeated. He looked at Stanton, who was still smirking, and then back to Snow. "Get your psycho back on her leash."_

 _Mark nodded solemnly. Snow evidently respected him – or feared him. But Stanton was too high from the kills to notice, or to care. "Or what?" she demanded._

 _"Or we'll put you down," he answered without hesitation._

 _Kara grinned. "You, personally?"_

 _"If need be."_

 _He looked at Snow, gave a little guy-nod to Reese, and left._

 _"Who the fuck was that asshole?" Kara demanded, loud enough for the departing man to hear._

 _"Kostmayer," Snow answered grimly. "That was Kostmayer."_

 _Stanton went suddenly serious, a little pale. Then she laughed it off. She splashed some of the bloody water at Reese. "You boys worry too much."_

 _It took Reese three weeks of careful questions – none while Kara was around – to learn that Michael Kostmayer was Control's right hand. No one could tell him much about him, but they all gave him one piece of advice: Don't cross him._

Elizabeth Zane was perfectly at ease with him. "So who's this guy?" she asked.

"John Reese. Most of the time." Kostmayer considered. "His partner, Stanton, I told you about her. She was twisted. Psycho. This guy, not so much. Good at his job, but he never got off on it."

"Well, that's good to know," she said sardonically. "Hello, John Reese. It's nice to meet you."

Reese smiled fleetingly. "And your name is …?"

She smiled back, but didn't answer.

Kostmayer put the battery back in Reese's phone and scrolled through the settings casually. "So what's your plan?" he asked. "Turn her in and buy your way back into the good graces of the Company?"

"I'm never going back there," John answered honestly.

"Good for you, son. It wouldn't work anyhow, you know."

"I know." He took a chance. "You're Kostmayer."

"Yep."

"If the Agency wants her – you obviously knew where to find her."

Kostmayer shrugged. "It's complicated."

Elizabeth said, "I'll get the kids packed. We'll be out of here by midnight."

He raised one laconic eyebrow and slipped the phone into his pocket. "You're gonna run, huh?"

"I don't see any option."

"He's not on the payroll."

"He's still an op. Still Company."

"I'm just sayin', maybe we ought to think this through." The man was calm, easy-going. Strong enough to know he didn't need to bark. "Scared is stupid. They may have sent him to bird-dog you. Flush you right into the snare."

"Damn it, Mickey …"

"The Agency didn't send me," Reese said. "I told you the truth. I was only trying to protect Helen."

The two looked at him for a long moment.

The man shrugged. "Let's see what the chef says."

Elizabeth nodded. "Only reason I'm not already digging a hole."

"Just like the old days, huh?"

"You better not be enjoying this," she snarled.

"Oh, come on. Tall drink of water like this tied up in the garage, all dark and dangerous? You can't tell me it's not kinda fun."

"I got four kids in that house to look out for. It's not fun."

The man made a little face at Reese. "She's having fun," he assured him.

"At least one of us is."

"Beats the hell out of fishing."

* * *

Gusev groaned when he saw the caller ID on his phone, but he answered. "Mr. Black. We're going to need a little more time."

"For what?"

"To locate the girl's home …"

"I've already done that," Black answered.

"You have?"

"I didn't figure you idiots were up to it," he snarled. "I know where the girl is. And her mother."

"And the files?"

There was a little pause. "Of course, the files."

Gusev grinned. "You forgot about the files, didn't you, Black? But I didn't."

"You'll get your files."

"When?"

"Tonight. I'll meet you at the diner. Nine o'clock. We'll need four or five men."

"Why don't you just give me the address," Gusev suggested, "and we'll meet you there."

"You really do think I'm an idiot, don't you?"

The mobster shrugged to himself. "You're sure the files are there?"

Black hung up on him.

* * *

Finch lifted his foot off the accelerator and let the car roll past the point where the red dot appeared on his phone. There, somewhere behind the graceful white wall, was where John Reese's car was.

Or at least, where John Reese's car keys had been.

He did not have to look at the house. He knew the house. Tall, stately, conversative. Large. With a professionally groomed lawn and a state-of-the-art security system. He had been inside once. Carlos Zaccardi was a senior vice president of a major Wall Street brokerage house. His wife Yvette was a sculptor of some renown. Mrs. Zaccardihad hosted a gathering for local artists' groups, a fund raiser for art materials for storm-damaged schools throughout the city. Harold remembered every detail. It had been springtime, a breeze sunny afternoon. Grace Hendricks had worn a soft green dress, new and very becoming. She'd been giggly, pleased but nervous to be at such a lofty gathering. She'd had no idea, of course, that her escort had more money than everyone else in the house combined. Harold had been acutely aware of the depth of his deception that afternoon. He'd regretted it. Grace had read his tension as social anxiety, and she'd stayed by his side. But Yvette – she'd insisted that they call her Yvette – had been a warm, friendly woman, intelligent and approachable, and she'd put them both at ease. Many of Grace's artist friends had been there, and most of the conversation had been art-related, of course, but Harold had been unexpectedly comfortable. The food had been exceptional.

If Yvette Zaccardi was there, if she recognized him – well, that would be very bad. Very bad.

Perhaps the couple had sold the house and moved to France or to Quebec. They had connections in both places, Finch remembered.

Perhaps Elizabeth Zane and her brood had broken into the estate and were simply squatting there.

He doubted he would be that lucky.

The gate was closed. Finch glanced between the bars as he drove past. There were cars in the drive, but John's was not among them.

He continued without accelerating, down around the corner and out of sight of the house.

Bear whined softly.

"We'll get him, Bear," Finch said calmly. He parked the car at the side of the street, in the shade.

A quick internet search showed no change of ownership for the property. It was still held by one of Zaccardi's trust companies. Whether the couple was still in residence was unclear. If she recognized him, if she knew that Grace Hendricks believed he was dead …

But he had no option. "We have to go in there, Bear," he said simply. "If John's in there, we have to go for him." He would sort out his lies later. Perhaps he could persuade them not to tell Grace.

Newly-married, happy Grace …

"We have to go in there," he repeated.

He pulled out his phone.

* * *

There was a soft, almost timid knock on the door.

Elizabeth sighed. "I don't know why I even bothered to lock it." Louder, she said, "What?"

"Mama, there's a man on my phone." It didn't sound like Helen; John guessed it was the younger sister.

"What?"

"He says he needs to talk to you. About John."

The woman glared at Reese. Then she hurried to the door behind him and opened it quietly. "Give it here."

"Mama …"

"It's okay, Sarah. You're not in trouble."

"Aunt Becky's here."

"Good. Tell her I'll be in in a minute." The door closed.

The man picked up Reese's gun and moved to stand close behind him. He didn't tell him to stay quiet; they both understood.

Elizabeth returned to the work bench and clicked the speaker on. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Zane?" Finch said over the phone. "Thank you for taking my call."

"How did you get this number?"

"That's not important."

"It is to me."

Reese could see that the woman was on full alert again. She held her body perfectly still. Her full attention was focused on the phone. She trusted, he noted, that her partner had John under control. They had been together a very long time, in some form or another.

"Is my friend there with you?" Finch said. "I believe he introduced himself as Detective Stills."

"He's not Stills."

"No. He is not. Is he safe?"

"For now," Elizabeth said. "Who are you?"

"I'd like to speak with him."

"No."

Reese barely moved his head. There was an immediate touch on his shoulder. He didn't bother to look up for the warning.

"Then I'd like to speak with you, Mrs. Zane."

"I'm listening."

"I hoped we could meet in person. I assure you that neither my partner nor I intend you any harm."

Elizabeth looked up, over Reese's head at her partner. "You're Harold, aren't you?"

Finch did not hesitate. "Yes."

"Harold what?"

"That's not important, Mrs. Zane."

"I don't see any reason I should meet with you."

 _Good_ , Reese thought. _Harold would try another approach, but at least this would keep him out of danger for the moment_.

"Is your name really Elizabeth Zane?" Finch asked calmly. "Or is it Laurie Webster? Or Liesl Horvath? Or something else entirely?"

Elizabeth Zane sagged suddenly. It was as if Finch had reached through the phone and hit her with a stun gun. He might as well have. Reese guessed with some certainty that his partner had come up with two of her old CIA aliases.

John felt the hard cold of a gun barrel against his temple. "Shit," Kostmayer whispered.

Harold had caught both of his captors entirely by surprise.

 _Nice trick, Finch._

He half-expected the gun to go off in the next second.

Instead, Elizabeth Zane straightened and picked up her knife.

She was burned and she knew it. There was no point in prolonging the drama. She would dispose of the witnesses, pack up her children, and flee. Harold Finch, Reese realized, had just signed his death warrant.

Elizabeth took three steps toward him before Kostmayer said, "Wait."

He gestured for the phone, after a long moment she held it out toward him. "Do you have a dog?" Kostmayer asked clearly.

Finch hesitated for the first time. "Yes."

"You should come for dinner. You should bring your dog."

The gun barrel moved a little against Reese's head. He would have shouted anyhow if he'd thought it would do any good. But his warning and the sound of a gunshot wouldn't have kept Finch away. It was better if John was alive when he got there.

There was a long pause. Reese wanted to think that Finch was weighing the options, thinking of another way – but he suspected that Harold was simply dumbfounded by the turn of events.

"I … beg your pardon?" Finch finally said.

"Dinner," Kostmayer repeated calmly. "Bring your dog."

Finch gathered his wits with predictable speed. "Shall I bring wine?"

"You're sitting right outside the gate, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Run down to the corner, get some desserts from the Italian bakery. Get lots. I like cannoli."

"Very well. I'll be there shortly."

Elizabeth clicked off the phone. She stared at Kostmayer for a long moment, then at John. Without a word she picked up John's watch and went into the house.


	10. Chapter 10

Becky McCall opened the bottom cupboard and brought out a large stock pot. She set it on the stove, then gestured for her much-taller husband to empty the contents of the plastic container into it. She turned the heat on low, then found another pot to start rice in.

"So?" Scott asked carefully.

"Bring me a cookie sheet," she said. "Two. There." She pointed to a lower cupboard.

He looked where he was told. She was right, of course. "How long have you been having visions again?"

"Just today," she said. "What's going on?"

"Someone tried to kidnap Helen at the Institute." He raised his hand quickly. "She's fine, she's upstairs. This cop was there, a detective, and he brought her home. Only he's not a detective."

Becky nodded. "Okay."

"Okay? Mama Bear's got him tied up in the garage. And I think she seriously considered killing him."

"She's still considering it," she answered calmly. She checked the refrigerator for ingredients. Everything she'd expected was there. She'd brought the rest from her restaurant.

"Becky."

"It's okay," she promised. "Mickey's with them?"

"He won't stop her. He'll help."

She smiled gently. "It's okay, Scott. We'll sort it out. I need a strainer for the shrimp. And a mixing bowl."

"How are you not freaked out about this?"

"We've been here before."

"Not like this. Not with Lily being …"

"Protective," Becky provided. "The cop who's not a cop saved Helen. _Protected_ her."

"Yeah, but we don't know why. We don't even know who he is."

She shrugged. "Hence, dinner."

Lily came into the kitchen, carrying a man's watch. Becky brushed her hands off and wrapped her in a quick hug. "It's okay," she promised. "It's okay."

"I don't think it is," the woman answered tersely. "This guy's Company, or ex-Company. And he and his partner know way too much about me. If it wasn't for you …"

Becky held her hand out for the watch. It was a nice one, probably expensive, but not too flashy. He'd bought it for himself. He focused on durability and utility, rather than status. He didn't much care about status or about money. He was more interested in …

"Light and dark," she said to herself.

"What?"

"Light and dark," Becky repeated with more confidence. "Honor and betrayal. Failure. He's done things he's ashamed of, things he regrets. And he's done things he's proud of. He's found … friendship. Light." She handed the watch back. "He's a soldier. He's like Mickey. Dangerous, damaged, but very loyal."

"What did he want with Helen?"

She shook her head. "He's told you the truth. Part of it."

"Is he after _me_?"

Becky let her fingertips rest on the watch again. "He doesn't know you. He's really surprised to be where he is. Surprised and embarrassed. But impressed, too."

"What about the partner?"

She frowned. "There's just … nothing. Just a big blank wall. It's there, I can see it's there, but it's just a big empty space."

"That's scary," Scott observed.

His wife shook her head again. "Control was the same way." She gestured to Lily. "So were you. And you are again, right now."

"So the guy tied up in the garage is some kind of elite soldier, but his handler …"

"He doesn't think of him as his handler," Becky corrected. "He thinks of him as his friend."

Lily let out a long slow breath. "If he's like Mickey, then his partner is …"

"Like my father," Scott completed. "Is that good or bad?"

"It's terrifying, is what it is," she answered.

"He's a gentleman," Becky assured them both. "Like Robert. He won't provoke any unpleasantness over dinner if he can avoid it. Not while he's a guest."

Lily rolled her eyes. "Scott, go pick out some wine. I think we're all going to need it."

She went back to the garage.

Scott looked at his wife. "I'm not sure giving them all alcohol is really the way we want to go here."

"I'd only open one bottle for starters," Becky answered. "I don't think anybody's going to be drinking much."

"Except me."

"Don't you have to conduct?"

"Ehhh, I know the show, I'll be fine."

* * *

Finch purchase in a selection of pastries as instructed and returned to the house. This time he steered into the driveway.

"It's alright, Bear," Finch answered. He knew the dog heard the tension in his voice that belied his words. He reached over and rubbed the dog's ears.

The tall gate swung open.

Finch put both hands on the steering wheel and drove through slowly.

As expected, the exterior of the house was not much different. It had been spring, the trees had been flowering then, whereas now they were fully green. At least one old oak was gone …

Finch shook his head, forced himself to focus on the moment.

Ten yards from the house, an older man waited. He wore battered jeans and a black t-shirt; he was unshaven and his hair was unruly. At first glance, he reminded Finch of John Reese at their first meeting, under the bridge. Despite his scruffy appearance, the man carried himself with the same nonchalant power.

A very big Rottweiler sat quietly at the man's side.

The man waved one hand lazily, and Finch stopped the car. Another gesture and he turned off the ignition. He reached for the door latch, but the man gestured again and walked to the window. "Just stay there a minute," he said calmly. "Pop the trunk and the hood."

Bear growled. The Rottweiler did not move.

"It's alright, Bear," Finch repeated. He pressed the requested buttons and the hood rose slowly in front of him.

He heard the man rummaging in the trunk. Then the lid slammed. The man came around to the front of the car and poked around under the hood. Finch resisted the urge to ask him to check the oil while he was there. The situation was deadly serious, of course. Reese was in danger, perhaps injured, possibly dead. But this scruffy man seemed so casual, so matter-of-fact, that Finch felt unaccountably calm in his custody.

The hood slammed. The man gazed at him for a moment, then reached into his pocket. Bear growled again, and Finch felt a little clutch in his chest. But rather than drawing a gun, the man brought out a short pole with a bracket at one end. He pulled one end of the pole and it telescoped out to about six feet long. _A selfie stick?_ Finch had to fight down the urge to laugh again at the absurdity of it. The man brought out his phone and turned on an app, then fixed it in the bracket and lowered it to the ground. He was using the phone as a mirror, Harold realized. He watched patiently while the man circled the car, looking underneath for explosives or weapons.

The man folded the up the device and pocketed his phone. Then he opened Finch's door. "Come on out," he said. "Leave the dog."

" _Blijf_ ," he said briefly. Bear tensed, but he remained in the passenger seat as Finch climbed out.

The man, surprisingly, left the door open. He gestured and Harold raised his arms slightly. The pat-down was swift and professional. The man took his wallet, watch, and car keys and dropped them on the car seat. He slid the battery out of Finch's phone and put the two pieces into his pocket. He checked Bear's leash end-to-end.

"I am unarmed," Finch said.

"Uh-huh."

"I assure you, I present no threat to you."

"Sure. I can tell that by the way you look." The man snorted. "Funny thing, though. The most dangerous man I ever knew wore bow ties and cheap polyester sport coats. He liked being underestimated." He handed the leash back. "Bring the dog out."

Finch glanced toward the big Rottweiler. "Bella won't hurt him," the man said. "Unless I tell her to."

That wasn't remotely reassuring, but the bigger dog sat precisely where she had been told. Finch knew from Reese and from personal experience that a guard dog was no use unless it was very well-trained, and the Rottie clearly was. "Bear, _heir_ ," her said. The Malnois scrambled across the seat and jumped down to the driveway. " _Zit_."

Bear sat, tense but obedient, as the man leaned down and checked his collar. He straightened and let Finch snap the leash on.

"The pastries are in the back seat." Finch kept his voice carefully calm, unchallenging. As relaxed as this man seemed, he had no doubt he could kill him without a second thought. He was _very_ much like Reese.

"Cannoli?"

"Only the mini ones, I'm afraid."

The man scowled. "Eh, they're okay."

"Mocha mousse cups and tiramisu."

"Just what I needed." The man patted his slightly round belly. He got the pastries out of the car and checked the bag thoroughly – snitching one mini cannoli in the process. "Quality control," he said.

"Of course."

He closed both car doors. Then he brought a metal box out of his pocket and dropped it onto the roof of the car. There was a distinctly magnetic click. The man pushed a button on the side of the box and a red indicator light came on.

Finch recognized the signal dampener, of course. The patent was held in IFT's name, with Nathan Ingram listed as the inventor, but Finch had created it. This one was an older model, a bit battered and with only a ten-hour battery life. But it would keep any electronic device in the car from transmitting a signal.

Despite the danger, Finch felt a further sense of relief. He and Reese were in the hands of true professionals. It would make escaping more difficult, but it also greatly decreased their odds of being killed in a moment of panic or misunderstanding.

"I'm Mickey Kostmayer," the man announced.

"Harold Crow."

"Right." He gestured toward the house. "Come on in."

Finch tightened his grip on the leash. "Can you tell me, Mr. Kostmayer … is Mrs. Zaccardi here?"

The man's face flickered dark for an instant. "You know Yvette?"

"We met once. Some years ago."

"She's out of the country."

Harold exhaled. "I see."

The man looked at him curiously. "You seem relieved."

"Merely – adjusting my assessment of the situation."

"The situation is this," Kostmayer said calmly. "We're all going to sit down and have a good dinner. We're going to sort out what John Reese is doing here and why he approached Helen Zane. And what you have to do with all of that. We're going to make nice." He took half a step closer. "But be very clear on this. If you or your man or your dog make any move to harm anyone in that house, or if I even think you're going to, I will kill you all. And believe me, Yvette won't say a word about any mess I make. Understand?"

He hadn't drawn a weapon, nor come close enough to even touch Finch. He still held the pastries in one hand. He'd used nothing but his voice. It was impressive. "I understand completely."

"Good." Kostmayer gestured. "Let's go in."

Bear crowded close to Finch's leg as they moved, bristling and protective. But Harold was again oddly reassured. _Professionals_ , he thought for a second time. Their objectives were clear, and they were not at odds with Finch's and Reese's. It would take some careful words to persuade them of that fact, of course. But there would be clear thinking, sound reasoning.

And dinner.

He went inside.

* * *

 _You better not be enjoying this_ , Lily had said. Mickey Kostmayer felt a little grin twist around the corners of his mouth. He wasn't enjoying it, precisely. He believed that someone had tried to kidnap Helen and none of them knew why. The fortuitously-timed appearance of a former and presumed-dead Company operative was cause for even more concern. And the op's handler, an unknown man with a limp, a dog, and a suit that probably cost more than Kostmayer's car – Mickey was very, very concerned about him.

This guy knowing Yvette was just rancid ketchup on the shitburger.

And yet – it had been years since he'd felt this familiar little thrill of danger in his blood. Since he'd felt like he was actually doing what he was best at. He could feel both his muscles and his instincts stretching under this new challenge. He felt like himself again.

And God knew it would do Lily a world of good.

So, yeah. He was enjoying it. A little.

Like he'd told Reese, it beat the hell out of going fishing again.

Still, he touched the weapon tucked into his waistband at the small of his back. He was prepared to believe these guys, to a point, mostly because Becky McCall said they could. But he was also fully prepared to kill them if they presented a threat to the family.

If Lily didn't kill them both first.

The limping man paused just inside the front door and looked back at him. "Where is my friend?"

"First things first," Mickey answered. He gestured down the hallway to the left, toward the kitchen. The man walked that way without argument.

Kostmayer let the Rottweiler in, gave her the hand command to sit, and followed him. A spicy, delicious smell reached them before they even got to the door. In the kitchen, Becky was stirring a big stock pot with one hand and shaping drop biscuits with the other. Her husband was wisely standing against the wall out of the way. The second Rottweiler sat at his feet.

"Hey, Becky," Kostmayer said.

She put the spoon and the biscuit down and wiped her hands on her chef's apron while she looked his guest over. The newcomer stood very still. Mickey could tell he was observing everything, from the quality of the kitchenware to the smudge of flour on the chef's forehead. He might not be a professional, but he was very knowledgeable.

Dangerous.

Becky held her hand out. After a bare instant of hesitation, the man in the glasses took it, lightly. He shook it just once, made a little bow over it instead.

Over her shoulder, Mickey saw Scott straighten up. He raised his hand, just enough for the younger man to see it. He stayed where he was.

The woman looked up at Mickey. "He's hiding nearly everything, but he's not lying to you."

Harold startled visibly. Belatedly, he tried to take his hand back. Becky held on for one more moment, studying his face. Then she let him go.

"I don't …" he began, clearly rattled. Then he stopped and his attitude suddenly chilled. "I'd like to see my friend now."

Mickey looked to Becky again. She nodded encouragingly, even smiled at the man in the glasses. "It's okay."

There had been a time, many years ago, when he would have doubted her ability. No self-respecting Company agent, retired or otherwise, would ever admit that he followed the advice of a psychic. Hell, they'd never even admit that they _knew_ one. But Becky had been right many times before her gift faded in the early years of her marriage. Right about lotto numbers, right about nuclear warheads. Right about Lily.

She was right about this. Mickey believed her absolutely.

He put the pastries on the counter and snatched a shrimp out of the pot. "Come with me." He led the man and his dog to the garage.

Reese was still tied up. He twisted to look over his shoulder when he heard them. The look on his face when he saw that his partner had walked into the situation willingly told Kostmayer what he needed to know: They were tight. They could be used as hostages for each other.

"You shouldn't have come, Harold."

"She's making jambalaya," the man with the glasses answered calmly. "I'm rather fond of that dish, when it's properly prepared."

"It will be," Mickey promised. He stepped around the smaller man and pulled his knife out. The dog growled, and Harold tightened his grip on the leash. Kostmayer ignored him and moved over to Reese. "I don't think I need to tell you …"

"No," Reese said sharply. "I got it."

"Good." He glanced at Lily. She was leaning against the workbench again, studying the new guy. Her face was completely blank. "Chef says cut him loose."

She shifted her thousand-yard stare to him.

"Not everybody who used to work for the Company is a bad guy."

"Since when?" After a long moment, she twitched one shoulder in what passed for a shrug.

Kostmayer cut her prisoner free. Reese stretched his arms and then his legs. He moved slowly. Mickey could tell didn't want to alarm them, especially not with his partner here and vulnerable.

The Malnois trotted over happily and nudged at Reese's hand.

"Hey, Bear." The op stood up slowly. He was taller than Kostmayer remembered. Had long arms, too. That didn't mean Mickey couldn't take him, if it came to that; he just made a mental note that he'd need to cheat right out of the gate.

"Are you injured, John?" Harold asked carefully.

"She tortured me a little, but I didn't give anything up." He gave him a crooked grin. "I'm fine, Harold."

He looked at Mickey. "So now what?"

"Now," Lily sighed, "we go have dinner."


	11. Chapter 11

Harold Finch desperately wanted a minute alone with his partner. First he wanted to be sure that Reese was genuinely not injured; John was very good at pretending right up to the point of collapse. And secondly, he wanted to know what he'd been able to learn about their situation.

But that moment to compare notes was not allowed. He could understand their hostess' position, of course. _Hostess or captor?_ He wasn't sure even of that. Despite the gun in the man's waistband, he had made no further threats. Of course, they were professionals. Implied threats were more than adequate.

Who or what Mrs. Zane was hiding from remained unclear in Harold's mind. He didn't know if Reese knew, either. He _did_ know that since the Machine had given them her daughter's number, the threat was real. But who was the man with the gun? Who was the chef, and the tall man in the kitchen with her? Were any of them the threat? And how were any of them connected to the sculptor Yvette Zaccardi and her wealthy stock broker husband?

He cast a questioning glance at Reese as they walked. John merely shrugged. But the look in his eyes was enough to reassure Finch. He might not have the answers, but he was not unduly concerned about their safety at the moment.

Of course, that status could change very quickly. He could see in his partner's posture that Reese was aware of that, too.

The two Rottweilers sat in a doorway half-way up the hall. They were very alert, highly interested especially in Bear, but neither of them moved. Reese approached within a few feet of them, then gave the hand command for the Malnois to sit. Bear did, though he was clearly interested in the other dogs, too.

Finch was used to thinking of Bear as a big dog, but he was barely half the size of either of the Rottweilers. Yet they were not overtly threatening, either.

"At ease, girls," Kostmayer said. The Rotties moved as one, approaching Bear slowly, heads low, sniffing.

Bear looked back and forth between them, then up at Reese. "It's okay," John told him. He reached down and unsnapped the leash.

The dogs circled, crowding through the doorway into the spacious living room, sniffing but not snapping.

"They'll be okay." Kostmayer moved on to the kitchen.

Reese seemed to concur, so Finch did not object.

The chef came out of the kitchen, holding a piece of green butcher paper open in both hands. "Is it okay?" she said.

Finch saw that there were three short pieces of fresh beef bone on the paper. Most of the marrow had been removed.

"They may fight," Reese said.

"We'll send the girls outside," she answered. "Star! Bella!"

The Rotties lumbered down the hall cheerfully.

"Pick one," Becky encouraged. She handed him a deli paper.

Reese picked up one of the bones. The chef led the Rottweilers to the patio door, let them out, and presented each of them with one of the other bones.

Finch understood from his partner's nod that he approved. By giving him the choice of bones, the small brunette had made it clear that none of them were poisoned.

"Bear, _hier_ ," John said. He had the Malnois sit down near the closed glass door, out of the way of foot traffic, and gave him the bone. The dog lay down and chewed contentedly. Outside on the patio, the Rottweilers did the same.

Finch glanced at Mrs. Zane. The mother was silent and still, very tense. Probably the most dangerous person in the room. And she was studying him. "I'm Harold," he said. "Thank you for meeting with me."

"Elizabeth. Where did you get those other names?"

"I have a source."

"Inside the Company?"

The _Company_ , Harold noted. When John spoke of his former employers, he always called it the _Agency_. But Mrs. Zane was a generation or two older. The noun implied that she'd been away from the CIA for a very long time.

"No." He realized as he spoke that that wasn't precisely true. The Machine most certainly had tendrils inside the Central Intelligence Agency. But it was correct in the sense that she was asking. "How long have you been retired?"

She smiled faintly. "I didn't retire."

"Ahh."

A timer sounded and Becky hurried away. "Table," she called over her shoulder.

Mrs. Zane hesitated. Then she went to the bottom of the stairs and called up, "Kids! Come set the table!"

The tall blond man came out of the kitchen with an open bottle of wine in each hand. "Becky says wine," he announced. He went to the sideboard and brought out glasses. "I'm Scott."

"Harold," Finch answered. "This is John."

"Hey." He poured half an inch of the wine, sniffed it and then tasted it. "Whoa. That's hearty."

"Can I just have …" Kostmayer began.

"A beer," the chef said from the doorway. She had two long-necked bottles, already open, in her hand.

"You know me so well."

"I really do." She held the bottles out, not to him but to Reese. He picked one. Kostmayer took the other.

Finch took the glass of wine the blond man offered him and sipped. It was an expectedly strong burgundy, a good pairing with a spicy seafood dish.

This man was younger than Kostmayer and Zane, and he reminded Finch very strongly of a younger Nathan Ingram. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a lion's mane of blond, unruly hair. His face was open, his expressions unhidden, and he smiled in a way that tried to be reassuring. Finch had seen this man before, somewhere. He didn't think they'd ever met face-to-face, but he looked familiar.

Scott and the chef were obviously a couple. He wore a wedding ring; she did not, but Harold could see a sturdy chain around her neck. She likely carried it there because of her profession.

From the aromas coming from the kitchen and the selection of the wine, he was assured that she knew her business.

Mrs. Zane took her own glass. The boys and then the younger sister came down the stairs, curious and nervous. Their mother immediately said, "No."

The boys froze. "What?" the older one – Robert – said.

"No," their mother repeated. "Take them back upstairs and secure them."

"But Mom …" the younger one, Michael, protested.

She threw a quick look at Reese. "He's better than you. I don't need to be trying to take your guns away from him. Upstairs. Now."

"But …"

"Now."

Finch blinked, trying to hide his shock as both boys drew weapons from behind their backs. They grumbled, but trudged back up the stairs, both handling the guns with familiarity and ease. "Your sons," he said carefully, "are permitted to handle firearms?"

"We live in bear country," the mother replied flatly. "All of my children are proficient with firearms."

Kostmayer cleared his throat, but did not comment.

Sarah, the youngest, was apparently unarmed. She continued down the stairs. "Helen says she's not coming."

Elizabeth leaned past her and called, "Robert! Tell your sister to get down here."

"Yes, ma'am."

Scott went back into the kitchen. Elizabeth gestured the others over to the space in front of the patio doors, away from the table. "Okay," she said, "you have your man back and you can see he's only been gently rumpled. For the moment. Who are you and what do you want?"

Finch nodded. "I'm a … concerned third party, I suppose. I promise that I am not affiliated with the government in any way. In fact the authorities are hunting John and I, probably much more avidly than they're hunting you."

Elizabeth looked at Reese. "Did you kill the cop? Detective Stills?"

"Yes," John answered without hesitation.

"Why?"

"To protect an innocent man."

"Did Stills know he was innocent?"

"Yes."

She looked at Kostmayer, then back to Finch. "Why did he grab Helen?"

"She was in danger." Finch was pleased with the straightforward nature of this conversation. "As I understand it, a man was trying to force her into his car."

"Yeah, but why was Reese there at all?" Kostmayer asked.

That was a more difficult question to answer. "We had information," Finch said, "that there might be some kind of incident. We didn't know exactly what."

The oldest children tromped down the stairs again. "Set the table, please," their mother directed. "Ask Aunt Becky what you need."

The boys went to the kitchen. Helen moped her way over to the grown-ups. "I'm sorry my mom dropped you," she said to John, a little shyly.

"It's okay." Reese rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. "She was protecting you."

"It's kinda your own fault, though. I told you she had zero chill."

"Helen," Elizabeth reproved mildly.

"Well you do."

"Who were the guys that grabbed you?" Kostmayer asked.

"I don't know. I never saw them before."

"Are you sure?" Finch asked. "Could they have been following you before today …"

"No," she snapped. "I stay alert. Like I'm supposed to."

Harold paused. The teenager had reacted exactly as Reese would have, as if he'd questioned her professionalism. But she was a civilian, a child …

… and all of Elizabeth Zane's children were proficient with firearms, too.

"My apologies," he said sincerely.

"I got some pictures on him," Reese said. "On my camera. I'm not sure how good they are."

"I ran the license plate of the town car," Finch added. "Of course it was stolen."

"Do we really have to go home?" Helen asked her mother.

"We're discussing it," Kostmayer told her firmly. "Go help set the table."

"But …"

"Go."

Grumbling, she left. There was considerable clatter as the children set the table. Another timer went off in the kitchen.

Harold watched the children. Despite the tense situation, they worked with easy familiarity, cooperative and efficient. They had looked similar in their pictures, but in person the family resemblance was even more striking. They all had the same strong facial features, the heavy brow, the pronounced jawline, though the girls' were somewhat softer than their brothers'. They all had blue-gray eyes. They all had long, slender fingers.

None of them particularly resembled their mother.

He turned his head just a little and found Elizabeth Zane watching him just as intently as he was watching her children. There was ferocity in her eyes. It was restrained for now, banked. But Finch had no doubt that the slightest threat to her children would erase that restraint in an instant.

She had the eyes of a woman who had seen far too much, lost far too much. The eyes of a woman who would give no quarter.

Finch did not quite smile at her, but he softened his own gaze, let his expression be open and reassuring.

The corners of her mouth turned up a little, not a smile so much as a sardonic acknowledgement of his attempt. She was not buying.

In her position, he would not have lowered his guard either.

He glanced at Reese. The former operative was openly eyeing Kostmayer. Neither man moved, or even blinked. In a minute, Finch thought, they were going to start pounding their chests to demonstrate their strength.

Fortunately, the chef came to the door and announced, "Dinner's ready."

* * *

Kostmayer sat at the head of the table, with their 'guests' on each side of him. Lily sat on the far side of Reese. Mickey guessed that this was partially to keep him physically separated from her children, but mostly because it gave her a clear view of his partner across the table. They'd put Scott next to the man with the glasses, then the children, then Becky at the foot of the table where she could easily access the kitchen.

Mickey was confident he knew what Reese was. Former op, highly skilled, off the reservation. Totally committed to his new handler. He was probably paid for his work, but that was incidental. He was devoted to the work – whatever it was – and to his partner. Reese had found someone worthy of his loyalty, and he'd given it without question. Mickey'd been there. Exactly there.

But the man in the fancy suit was harder to pigeonhole. He was wealthy, obviously. Mickey had always lived in blue jeans when he had a choice, but he'd had a couple friends who knew clothes; he recognized expensive when he saw it. Harold seemed mild-mannered, but Kostmayer sensed a hard edge to him. The fact that Becky couldn't get a read on him said that he lot of secrets, and that he guarded them fiercely.

He was too rich to be Company. But he was fiercely loyal to his partner, too. So what was he hiding? And what the hell did he want?

While Becky served, Sarah Rose said, "Mama, can I have wine?"

Lily sighed, but went and got more wine glasses. She poured a little wine and a lot of water into one for Sarah, then a little more wine and less water for Michael, slightly more wine for Robert and finally roughly half-and-half for Helen. It had been their practice since Helen was old enough to demand her own glass; her parents had reasoned that alcohol was a lot less tempting when it wasn't strictly forbidden.

Kostmayer noted that neither of their guests seemed at all surprised by this practice.

The jambalaya was delicious. Of course, everything Becky made was delicious.

"This is outstanding," Harold said sincerely as Becky finally settled into her chair.

She blushed and looked down. "Thank you."

"Try a biscuit," Mickey said, grabbing one for himself. "You will never want anyone else's."

"I know I never have," Scott teased, making her blush even redder.

"TMI, Scott," Lily said.

Reese deliberately spooned up just a little broth and tasted it. "This must have simmered all afternoon to taste this rich. How did you do that?"

Becky took a sip of wine, trying to regain her composure. After all these years, Mickey thought, and after all the awards she'd won, it was kind of delightful that she was still bashful when anyone praised her cooking. "I, um … we own a restaurant. So yeah, it's been simmering since this morning. I just filled up a container and brought it over. Made the rice and prepared the shrimp and put it all together."

Harold took a single bite of his biscuit and announced, "O'Phelan's."

Becky blushed again. "How did you know that?"

"This." He waved another bit of biscuit between his fingers. "The texture, the buttery cheesy taste, these are unforgettable. I suppose you make the cinnamon rolls as well."

She nodded.

"Everybody loves those cinnamon rolls," Scott said proudly. "Everybody."

"They are extraordinary," Harold agreed.

"How do I not know about this place?" Reese grumbled. Mickey sensed that he was already plotting how to take the left-overs home with him.

"I haven't been there myself in some time," Harold protested. "To be honest, when Mrs. O'Phelan died I was afraid … well, that the quality of the dining would decline. But if you're there, making these, then obviously it hasn't. I'll make sure to rectify that error as soon as possible."

"Can I go to the restaurant with you this weekend?" Michael asked.

"Me, too?" his brother added quickly.

Becky looked at Lily. "We'll see," she said carefully.

"She means if we don't have to leave," Helen added glumly.

The younger children traded some significant looks and nudges. Then Sarah stood up and moved to her mother's side. "Mama, we've been thinking."

Lily glanced at Mickey, then slipped her arm around her daughter's waist. "About what, Sarah?"

"We were thinking that since Helen is the only one who screwed up …"

"I did not screw up!" her sister protested.

" … that you should send her home and let the rest of us stay. We've followed all the rules and we've been very careful, and it's not fair we all have to leave just because of what she did."

"I didn't do anything! You little brat!"

"It wasn't all my idea!" Sarah answered.

"So you guys," Mickey interrupted quickly, "are willing to just throw your sister under the bus?"

"You're all brats!"

"It's delightfully ruthless," Lily observed.

"Can't imagine where they get that," Reese said quietly.

"Mom!" Helen wailed. "You're not going to do that, are you?"

"It's only fair," Michael protested.

"Stop," Lily said. "All of you. We're not discussing this right now."

"But Mom …"

"Stop."

Mickey leaned back and pulled out his phone. "Sarah Rose. You want to impress your mama, come over here and tell me which one of these people followed you around the park today."

The girl trotted happily around the table and settled onto his knee. She looked carefully as he scrolled through six pictures on his phone. Then she took the phone and scrolled through again on her own. On the third time through, she said, "This is Miss Mackey. She's Katrina's helper. Katrina's in a wheelchair, she mostly just watches, except she can ride a horse. Miss Mackey goes everywhere with us. But only on Fridays. Other days Katrina has other helpers."

Kostmayer nodded. He'd been certain the little girl would excel at this test. He'd taught her well. And she'd practiced with her parents and siblings, too, of course. "Go on."

She swiped to the next picture. "This guy was at the ticket booth to the carousel. He wasn't doing the work, though. He looked like a boss. A supervisor."

Sarah hesitated a little longer over the third picture. "Oh. He's a … at the school where we train, he's not a janitor, exactly. He fixes things. Like when the water fountain wouldn't stop."

"A maintenance man," Mickey provided.

"Yeah, that." She swiped again. "This lady … she had twins. They were like, little. Toddlers. They could walk and all, but they still had diapers. I don't think she was their mom. They were on the baby swings when we went to the playground."

She didn't even take a breath before the fifth picture. "This is Mr. Z. He drives our van." She moved on to the last picture. "This guy …um …"

"C'mon, Sarah," Robert muttered.

"He was selling something. I can't remember." She closed her eyes and her forehead wrinkled in concentration. "Not food. He wasn't the hot dog guy. He was selling … oh. He had one of those carts that sells stuff to the rubes. Tourists. T-shirts and do-dads, snow globes and key chains and stuff."

"Very good," Mickey said.

"The only one who followed me around all day, besides the people who were supposed to, was _you,_ Uncle Mickey." She giggled and kissed him on the cheek.

He gave her a squeeze. It wouldn't be enough to convince Lily, of course, but it was a nice solid demonstration. "Good girl. Go finish your dinner."

She went back to her seat.

"She did good, Mom," he prodded Lily gently.

"Uh-huh," she answered drily. "I'm very impressed." But a little reassured smile played around her mouth.

"She is very observant," Reese said. "So is Helen. She might not have needed my help to get away from those men."

"I didn't," the teenager answered.

"If we're able to determine the source of the threat, identify those men and establish what their objective is," Harold offered, "you may not need to …"

"Stop," Lily repeated firmly.

"Mom," Helen persisted, "just listen. Those guys weren't after me because of you, or because of Dad."

"You don't know that."

"But he just said so." The teen gestured at Finch.

"He said he didn't know what they were after."

"Helen …" Mickey warned.

"It's not about you. They're just some local creeps or something. It's not about you or Dad or any of that. No one cares about you anymore. It's all ancient history. Nobody cares who won the Cold War …"

"Helen!" Kostmayer snapped.

The girl closed her mouth, opened it, then closed it again.

"Go to your room," her mother said quietly.

"I didn't mean …"

"Go."

The teenage stood up and threw her napkin down. She grabbed a biscuit defiantly and stomped off.

Her siblings kept very quiet.

Harold took another bite of his jambalaya. "So," he said to Becky, "where do you get your shrimp? It's very fresh."

* * *

"Why were you at the school?" Michael asked, when most of the plates were empty and the worst of the silence had eased.

Reese wiped his mouth. "We got a tip that someone might be in trouble there."

"A tip from where?"

"That's complicated," Finch supplied.

"But you're not a cop?" Robert asked.

"No," John answered.

"Fed?"

"No."

Michael jumped back in. Reese had the feeling they frequently spoke in tag-team fashion. "So why were you there?"

"Do you need a badge," John asked carefully, "to try to protect people?"

"People you don't even know?" Robert retorted. "Usually."

"Usually. Not always."

Scott McCall drained his wine glass. "So you're just concerned citizens."

"Basically," Finch said.

"Vigilante?" Michael asked.

There was a brief pause around the table.

"What if nothing happened?" Robert began again. "At the school. What if nothing went down?"

"Then I would have waited, and come back tomorrow. Until whatever it was happened."

"Because your source is that good?" Elizabeth asked.

Reese nodded. "Yes."

"And you're not going to tell us who your source is," Mickey concluded.

"No."

There was another brief pause.

"So you just go around helping random people?" Sarah asked.

"Pretty much," John agreed.

"People who didn't ask for help."

"Usually."

"Don't you get like, bear-maced and tazered all the time?"

Reese grinned ruefully. "Sometimes. Not very often."

"But _why_?"

"Because someone has to," Harold provided, "and Mr. Reese has the skills to intervene."

"You help people," Becky said slowly, "when the _odds are against them_."

Finch folded his napkin. "You could put it that way, yes."

Reese watched the faces of the adults around the table. Unexpectedly, every one of them seemed to accept those words. Kostmayer smiled vaguely, but the tall blond man eased into a wide grin. Even Mrs. Zane's guarded expression softened marginally.

"I know that must sound … unlikely," Finch continued, with some confusion.

"No to us," Scott answered cheerfully. He stood up and walked quickly into the next room.

"We used to know a guy," Kostmayer explained.

Elizabeth focused on Reese. "He'd done a lot of things that he thought he needed to make amends for. To redeem himself for."

John nodded. There was no value in trying to lie, and perhaps a lot to be gained in telling the truth. "That sounds about right."

"Yeah," Kostmayer said. "A career with the Company's good for racking up regrets."

Scott returned with a small square picture frame in his hands. He handed it to Harold. "Odds against you," Finch read thoughtfully. "I remember this." He handed the frame across the table to Reese. Inside was a newspaper clipping, yellow with age. A classified ad:

 _Got a problem?_

 _Odds against you?_

 _Call the Equalizer._

 _212-55-4200_

"I used to read those ads and wonder …" Finch began. "He was a real person?"

"He was my dad," Scott said proudly. "Robert McCall."

Reese straightened. He didn't know anything about the newspaper ad, but he knew that name. Robert McCall was a legend at the Agency. One of the last of the old-school Cold Warriors. One of the best.

"Oh, the calls he must have gotten," Finch mused.

"Ninety-five percent cranks and weirdoes," Kostmayer confirmed. "But the few that weren't, he helped them."

"And you helped _him_?" Reese guessed.

Mickey shrugged. "Once in a while."

That was an obvious understatement, but John let it go. He was more intrigued by another thought. He looked at the older of the boys. "You're named after him?"

The boy nodded. "Yeah, he and my dad were …"

"Robert." Mrs. Zane didn't raise her voice, but its firmness cut through the room like a knife.

Her son snapped his mouth shut. "Sorry, Mom."

A moment of awkward silence descended. Harold sipped his wine and then said, to the man beside him, "Then you would be Scott McCall. You're the conductor for _Sweeney Todd_."

The blond man gawked at him. "How did you know that?"

"I'm rather an aficionado of the theatre, when I have the chance."

"Nobody remembers the conductor's name."

Harold smiled, a little embarrassed. "I was in the audience the night Brienna Spitzer stepped off the front of the stage. You made a heroic catch that prevented her from crashing into the orchestra pit."

The man laughed and rolled his eyes. "Oh, _that_. Yeah, that was a memorable night."

"You may have saved her life."

"No, probably just kept her from breaking an arm or a leg. I was actually more concerned about protecting my musicians. Decent oboe players are a bitch to find on short notice … sorry, kids, a _bear_ to find." He chuckled. "But don't tell her that. Brienna. She thinks I'm her biggest fan."

"You're not?" Reese prodded.

"She's … got an excellent voice," the conductor said diplomatically.

"And a reputation for being exceedingly difficult to work with," Finch provided.

Scott nodded. "Yeah. But since I saved her life, I'm the exception to the rule."

"And you," Finch said, addressing the chef, "would you be the same Becky McCall who's won nearly a dozen awards for culinary excellence in the past few years?"

The woman's cheeks turned bright red again. Reese smiled gently. There was no false modesty about the woman; she was genuinely bashful and humble. He liked her, and not just for her cheddy biscuits. Though those would have been reason enough.

Harold shook his head. "I have been _seriously_ remiss in not frequenting O'Phelans. Frequently."

Finch at his best could be irresistibly charming. He was working it now, pairing honest praise with genuine warmth, and it was working. The civilians, at least, were calmed. Comfortable with him. The pros were less impressed. But they had a faint understanding of his mission now. And because they'd had personal experience with someone who had done what Finch was trying to do, help those who could not help themselves, they actually believed him. To some degree, at least.

He set the framed ad down carefully next to his plate. _Thank you, Equalizer, wherever you are._ Reese started to think they might just get out of this alive.

He also thought he had learned something important. Robert McCall had been a legendary operative. He had been a close friend of Elizabeth Zane's late husband, close enough that their oldest son was named for him. The other son had been named for Mickey – Michael – Kostmayer, also a career operative. So it stood to reason that the late Mr. Zane had also been an op. Elizabeth had also been Agency, as evidenced by her trail of abandoned cover names. Intra-Agency relationships were forbidden, but that never stopped anyone from hooking up under the radar. Getting married was another matter. The children apparently didn't remember their parents as operatives, so they had likely left many years ago, either before Helen's birth or shortly thereafter.

It was damned hard for a seasoned operative to get out of the Agency. They would rather bury an agent than let him or her go. Reese knew that first-hand.

If Elizabeth Zane thought that the Agency was still after her, she was probably right. They didn't let anyone go. If they saw her on the street, even now, of course they're grab her. But she seemed to think they were actively pursuing her. Which meant she had been very high-level, indeed.

And that all explained why her children had the skill set they did.

He didn't have all the pieces yet. But he was getting closer.

Scott leaned over his chair and took one more bite of stew. "I'm sorry, I've really got to run. I can trust my first chair to warm them up, but not with the overture. It's kind of a bitch and the chorus can be pretty unpredictable."

"Go," Mickey said. "We got this."

"I've got to go, too," Becky said. "Dinner rush."

"Thank you for dinner," Harold said. "It was truly delicious."

"I could, uh, take care of the leftovers for you," Reese offered.

"The hell you could," Mickey snapped.

Becky laughed. "I brought lots. There's plenty for both of you."

"Prescient as always," Elizabeth said quietly.

"I know boys. Even once they're grown."

"Thank you for, um …" Reese began. "However you did it."

The woman blushed. "I couldn't begin to explain it."

"There's no need," Harold assured her. "It was effective, and we are grateful."

She and Mrs. Zane walked to the door, and spoke quietly there. The mother seemed agitated still; the chef was calm and soothing. Scott was less verbal; he simply wrapped the older woman in his arms and held her.

"Oh," Becky called over her shoulder to Finch, "the kettle's hot. Tea's in the last upper right cupboard."

Harold nodded, dumbfounded.

The chef giggled softly and left.


	12. Chapter 12

There was an old box of green tea with pomegranate in the cupboard. Finch scowled and kept looking until he found an unopened box of white tea. While he brewed a cup, Mrs. Zane made a full pot of coffee and loaded up two plates with assortments of the pastries he'd brought. She set one on the dining room table for the children. "Wash up when you're done, okay?"

"Okay, Mom."

The operatives recovered the well-chewed bones from their respective dogs to prevent conflict, then brought the Rottweilers in. The bigger dogs and Bear sniffed each other again, decided they were friends, and settled into a corner by the sliding doors together.

Mickey sent the younger boy to the garage to recover Reese's camera. The adults took their coffee and pastries to the study.

Finch could not help admiring the room. It was airy, with a high ceiling and tall French doors opening onto the spacious yard. Two comfortable leather couches flanked a low table in front of the marble fireplace; the entire room was lined with polished oak book shelves, loaded with an assortment of books. _Christine would love this room_ , he thought absently.

He wandered the perimeter and looked at the titles. There was a whole section of art books, old and new. At eye level near the door there was an entire shelf of history books. Mira Kalinich was apparently a favorite author; every single one of her books was there. Harold had read several of them. Kalinich had an easy, chatty style. She often wrote about minor historical figures from the American Revolution in a way that illuminated their understated importance. The common soldier who showed uncommon courage to save his general, the housemaid who passed information for the patriots, the blacksmith who worked in the dark to prepare horses for a long secret march. The ordinary people who made victory against impossible odds possible.

 _Odds against you_ , he mused. It was a theme in this household. He wondered again how Scott McCall and his father were related to the sculptor and her wealthy husband. He would need to find out, eventually.

A very different connection suddenly became obvious. "Elizabeth Zane," he said aloud.

"Yes?"

He turned and looked at the woman. "That's not your real name, of course."

"Of course."

"Betty Zane." He tapped the spine of one of the books. "A teenage girl who put herself at great personal risk to bring gunpowder to the beleaguered soldiers at Fort McHenry. She reasoned that the enemy soldiers would not fire on a young girl. And she was right, until she was on her way back and they realized what she was carrying in her apron."

She smiled quietly.

"It's interesting, that you would choose the name of such a minor figure."

"Abigail Adams seemed a little too obvious."

"I suppose so." Finch nodded to himself. "But you didn't pick that name at random, either. Betty Zane means something to you. Something particular. She's someone you admired, someone you … emulated?"

"Every war in history," Kostmayer said easily, "is won or lost on the ability to get information and supplies to the front lines."

"Couriers are the unsung heroes," Reese agreed. "Couriers and infantry."

Kostmayer snorted. "Well. I don't know about infantry."

John looked him up and down. "Navy?"

"Stop," Elizabeth ordered, before the argument over armed services could escalate. "Let's see these pictures you've got."

She picked up the camera. The two of them put their heads together over the small screen. "Nice focus," Kostmayer quirked.

"I was a little busy saving the girl," Reese shot back.

Elizabeth frowned at the image. "Anything?"

"Yeahhhhh," he answered slowly. "I know this guy. Mikhail something. Goes by Misha."

"This guy goes by Misha?" she asked. "That's … adorable."

"Used to be _Little_ Misha," Kostmayer answered. "His mom ran off or something, his dad used to bring him on jobs when he was just a tot. So Little Misha. Until he got big enough to fight about it, and then they dropped the 'Little'."

"You know who he's with?" Reese asked.

"He works for Azarov Gusev."

She frowned at him again. "He has a last name for a first name?"

"His first name's Yuri. But he grew up here in New York."

"Where his classmates called him Urine," Finch predicted.

"Bingo. So he dropped it."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Are you just making this shit up?"

"Nah. I sat on these guys a few years back," Kostmayer said. "Right before I retired. We intercepted a shipment of weapons headed for Palestine. Serial numbers filed off, but they came right up with a little acid. Turns out a bunch of them came from a gun buy-back program here in New York."

"Weapons that were turned in by responsible citizens," Finch said, "and were supposed to be destroyed."

"Yup. Gusev's people ran the area where the turn-in took place, so we took a good look at them. They're just street-level, nothing special. We couldn't find where the big bosses were involved. And then the intel went another way."

"To corrupt cops," Reese predicted.

"Exactly."

"Yogorov's still in prison," the woman said. "So who's Gusev working for now?"

Finch threw a questioning look at his own partner. Reese raised a single eyebrow, a low-key version of a shrug.

"I don't know," Kostmayer said. "But I can find out." He took out his phone, and moved to the far side of the room.

Elizabeth sat down at one end of the couch and sipped her coffee.

"You know Peter Yogorov?" Finch ventured. He sat down in a wingback chair next to her. Reese took the other chair.

"I know _of_ him." The woman shrugged. "I studied up before I brought my children into enemy territory. The intelligence services, of course. And the noteworthy criminal elements. The Russians. The Italians. The Japanese, the Koreans, the Greeks. The Armenians, the Bulgarians. The assorted street gangs, the corrupt cops, even your famous vigilante Man in the S—son of a bitch." She set her coffee cup down firmly and looked at John. "You're the Man in the Suit."

Reese glanced at his rolled-up shirt sleeves. Finch didn't know where he'd left his jacket. "I supposed it would help if I wore a tie."

Kostmayer clicked off his phone. "What?"

"He's the Man in the Suit."

He looked Reese up and down. "Well. That makes sense." He sat down on the couch. "They're checking on Gusev."

A cat meowed softly but clearly.

Finch looked around the room. There was no cat in evidence.

The meow sounded again. This time the sound clearly came from Kostmayer's pocket. The grizzled man seemed very surprised.

"Is that a cat in your pocket," Elizabeth asked solemnly, "or are you just happy to see me?"

Reese made a strangled little noise. "That's Christine's ring tone," he said bleakly.

Finch thought he might be sick. For weeks they had waited impatiently to hear from Christine, and now – now, when they could not answer –

– and it might be nothing, _hi, how are you, sorry I haven't called, I'm feeling better, can you pick me up at the airport_ – or it might be critical, _I have reached the end, this is more pain than I can endure, I just wanted to tell you good-bye_ – but he couldn't imagine how it could be anything in between.

Mickey pulled the phone out and looked at it. "Kitten?" he read.

The cat ringtone meowed again. "She's my sister. My little sister. She's overseas." Reese sounded as desperate as Finch felt. "Please, I have to talk to her."

Elizabeth and Mickey shared a look.

By then the phone had rung four times. " _Please_ ," John repeated urgently.

Kostmayer thumbed the speaker button and held the phone out in front of him.

"Kitten," John said clearly. He leaned forward, but he didn't reach for the phone.

There was a pause long enough to make Finch fear that she'd hung up. "John?"

One word, across an ocean and over a speaker phone, and Harold could tell she was in distress.

"I'm right here," Reese said with calm in his voice that completely belied the deep concern on his face. "What's up?"

"Is this … is this a bad time?"

Her voice was painfully small. Six weeks since they'd spoken to her, and she was still in so much pain.

 _Please God don't let her be high._

"It's fine, Kitten," Reese said. "What's wrong?"

Finch scooted forward in his own chair. He desperately wished he could secure some privacy for John, but that was completely impossible. Their hosts/captors were beginning to trust them, perhaps, but they were not going to let Reese have a private conversation at this point.

"I don't … can you tell me …" Christine stopped.

Reese closed his eyes. His hands balled his hands into fists. Finch started to speak, then stopped. If Christine had wanted to talk to _him_ , she would have called him.

Although – she might have tried. He was fairly certain the battery was still out of his phone, both in Kostmayer's pocket as well.

Finch was aware of the sharp attention of the others, but he couldn't be concerned with them right now. He took a long deep breath and put his hand on Reese's shoulder.

"I don't know what to do with …" Christine finally said, "… can you tell me what to do with … with rage?"

"Rage?"

"I expected grief. And regret. And guilt. But I didn't think there would be this much _rage_."

Finch exhaled. They were not the words or the speech pattern of a woman with a needle in her arm. She was in distress, yes, but she was in control, too.

He felt like a complete bastard for having suspected her of relapsing.

John met his eyes. The former op had been thinking the same thing. "You have every right to be angry, Christine. To be full of rage. Everything that happened to you – you have _every right_. I'm angry for you. You should be furious. About all of it."

"But I don't …" Her voice cracked; Harold could tell she was trying not to cry. "I don't know what to _do_ with it. I just want to … to …"

"Run," Reese said.

Christine sniffed. "What?"

"You asked me what to do with that rage. You called me because you know I know. And I'll tell you. I'll tell you what to do, step by step. But you have to promise you'll do exactly what I say. Okay?"

"Okay."

Finch understood now why she'd called Reese and not him. And he was shamefully grateful that she'd made that choice. He would not have known what to say. He would have tried to soothe her, placate her. But John knew better. John knew precisely what she needed to hear. And Harold was deeply grateful for that, too.

"Get yourself a backpack, a small one with a waist strap," Reese continued firmly. "Put your phone in it, and your wallet, and three bottles of water. Get some decent shoes. Spend money on them. And socks that fit. Then take a cab or rent a car, whatever you need to do, and get yourself to somewhere empty and long and flat. A field or a dirt road or a beach. Do you know a place like that?"

She made a sound, possibly a hiccup. "Yes."

"Get your gear. Go there. And run. Just run. Put everything you're raging about right in the front you and run at it. Put it in your legs and your arms and your chest and run it out. Run until you can't run any more, until you fall down. Then stay down and catch your breath and drink some water. Then get up and run some more. Don't try to push the rage away. Hold on to it, and make it carry you. Run it out. Okay?"

Kostmayer nodded his agreement. Finch nodded, too. The advice seemed absolutely right to him. He remembered Julie Carson, heartbroken over Will Ingram, running and then swimming until she dropped from exhaustion. When Harold had been able to run, before the Machine …

Christine said simply, "Yes."

"When you can't run any more, when you get up and you absolutely can't run, then drink a lot of water and start walking back. Walk as far as you can. If you can't make it all the way, call someone to come get you. Go back to your room, drink the rest of the water, take a hot shower, have a high-protein meal. Go to bed. Sleep as long as you sleep. When you wake up, gear up and do it again. Do it every day, for as long as you need to. Until your rage is too weak to carry you any more. Understand?"

Mrs. Zane pulled out her own cell phone and typed a quick message, then held it up for Reese to see. He read it and frowned.

"Okay," Christine said. She didn't sound convinced – she'd never shown any interest in athletics except as a spectator – but Finch was sure she'd take his advice anyhow.

"Anywhere along the line that you need to talk, you call me. Understand? I am always here for you, and I will always help you."

"I know, John."

"Christine." Reese read the other phone again. "One more thing. Whatever you do, don't cut your own hair."

She made a little choking noise that might have been a startled giggle. "How did you even know I was thinking about that?"

John looked up. Elizabeth nodded knowingly.

"Just don't," Reese said. "Tie it back while you run. If you still want it cut when you're done, get a professional to do it. Trust me."

"John …"

"You can do this," he promised her. "You can get through this. You've come through everything else. I know it's scary. I know it seems like the rage is the biggest and the darkest. And it is. But it's like – like a thunderstorm. Dark and violent and dangerous, but also short. And when it passes …"

"The sky's all the bluer," she whispered, almost too soft to be heard over the distance and the speaker.

John swallowed. "I know you can't see it. But trust me. Run toward it. Run into it. You'll get through faster. You're strong enough for this. And it is the last part. This is the end of it. You can do this. I know you can."

There was a very long silence. Then she sighed. "I believe you."

"Good." Reese brushed at his eyes. "I love you, Kitten."

"I love you, too."

The call went dead.

John closed his eyes, his head down. Finch squeezed his shoulder. "That was exactly right, John."

"I hope so." He gathered himself and looked up. "Thank you," he said to the others.

Kostmayer pocketed the phone.

"You may have saved my daughter's life today," Elizabeth said warily. She added, "She's not really your sister."

Reese didn't lie. "She's the closest I'll ever have. How did you know?"

"She lets you call her Kitten. Sarah Rose would rip off her brothers' heads for that."

"What's her damage?" Kostmayer asked, not unkindly.

"She had to kill a man," Finch said. "During the recent Perk poisonings. He was armed and out of control …"

"She's a civilian," Reese added.

"First one's hard," Kostmayer agreed.

Elizabeth looked toward the kitchen. "Mine wasn't."

"You ever going to tell me that story?" her partner asked quietly.

The woman shook her head. "It would just piss you off. And they're all dead anyhow." She looked at Reese. "You did good."

"I hope so." He slugged back his coffee. "Why did you cut your hair?"

"Bosnia," she said, as if that explained everything. "Have a cannoli."

"Mom?"

Helen Zane stood in the doorway. Elizabeth stood up, gestured, and her daughter came into the room. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"C'mere."

Harold focused on his tea, but from the corner of his eye he saw the mother wrap her daughter in a close embrace. He glanced at Reese, who smiled briefly.

"I know it was a stupid thing to say," the teen continued. "I'm sorry. You, too, Uncle Mickey."

"Yeah, yeah," Kostmayer grumbled.

"And also." Helen hesitated. "I might maybe know what those guys were after."

Finch stopped pretending he was interested in his tea and turned to face them.

"There was this guy," the teenager explained. "At Madam Tussaud's. In the World Leaders. He was acting all squirrely."

"Squirrely how?" her mother asked.

"Just, like, trying to be sneaky. He kept looking around to see who was watching him."

"Was he looking for someone?" Reese asked.

"No. He looked like he was trying to avoid someone. Everyone."

"Did he approach you?" Elizabeth asked.

"No. We kinda looked at each other and then he looked away. He was – he wasn't scared, exactly. But he was definitely shady."

"One of the guys that tried to get you in the car?" Kostmayer ventured.

"No. This guy was little. Like, five-five, maybe? And dark. Dark eyes, dark hair, dark complexion. And old. He was like, sixty hard years or seventy soft ones? But his hair was too black for his age, you know?"

Finch as impressed with the girl's description. "Why do you think he's related to the attempted abduction?"

The girl looked worriedly at her mother. "He, um … he hid something. In the trash can."

"How do you know he wasn't just throwing it away?"

The girl and her mother both shot him an identically scathing look.

"Sorry," Finch said immediately.

"He _hid_ it," Helen repeated, "under the rim of the lid. And then he left. Fast."

"Dead drop," Kostmayer intoned. "That's pretty old school."

"And then what?" Elizabeth asked tightly.

Helen's cheeks got pink. "And then I, um … went and got it."

Reese let out a long, slow breath. Harold shared a look with him. Now, finally, they were getting somewhere.

"You went and got it," Mrs. Zane repeated without expression.

"I was curious," the girl protested quickly. "He was acting all furtive and all, I just wanted to see what he was dropping."

"Helen …" Kostmayer began.

"And I was going to put it right back," she continued. "I took it to the ladies room and I was going to see what it was and put it right back. I swear. But then Dylan showed up and he said Jeff was waiting in the van and we had to go right away, and I didn't get a chance …"

"How in the _world_ did you think this was a good idea?" her mother demanded.

"I just wanted to _see_!" Helen protested. "I just wanted to know what it was."

Kostmayer stood up. "Helen …"

"And it's _your_ fault," the girl continued, to her mother. "You're the one who taught me always to watch people. And to be curious. And to get answers for myself. You taught me all of that …"

"Helen …"

"What was it?" Reese interceded.

The three of them stopped and looked at him.

Helen reached into her pocket and brought out a film canister. "Just this."

"Diamonds?" Finch guessed immediately. "Or drugs?"

"No. Just film."

Kostmayer took the canister and opened it. He dropped the film roll into his other hand. "Cheap-ass film, too."

"Exposed?" Reese asked.

"Yep."

"I was going to put it back," Helen repeated. "I swear, I was going to put it right back, but then Dylan was all like, hurry up, we have to go, so we …"

"Dylan Kozlow," Elizabeth pronounced, "is likely in this up to his eyeballs somehow."

Kostmayer snorted. "What, the party boy? I doubt it."

"That's not fair," Helen protested. "He didn't do anything wrong."

"He was _very_ friendly outside the Institute," Reese said.

Elizabeth scowled. "Was he? Again?"

"Mom!"

"I told you to stay away from him."

"Mom, quit. Why are you so judgey all the time? He's just a nice guy."

"He's a nice guy who's hitting on an underage girl," Zane snapped.

"He's not hitting on me. He just wanted me to go to the movies with him …" Helen stopped, bit her lip.

"He asked you out?" Elizabeth asked coldly.

"I think we're getting off track here," Finch offered. "If this Misha person was supposed to pick up the film canister and he realized that Helen had it …"

"And besides, he's only nineteen. Dad was like twice your age and you never saw anything wrong with that!"

"I wasn't sixteen when I met your dad," Elizabeth snarled.

"Stop," Kostmayer said firmly. "You want me to break Romeo's knees later, I'll be glad to. But right now, whatever's on this film is what's important."

The women both went silent. Then Helen said, very quietly, "He's a nice guy."

"He's a creep," her mother answered. Then she looked to Mickey. "I don't suppose your wife's due back any time soon."

He shook his head. "Never a Fotomat around when you need one."

"I know how to develop film," Finch offered, "if you have the equipment."

"Mom …" Helen began, half-apologetic.

"Go finish your supper," Elizabeth said. "Then help with the dishes."

"I know it was dumb …"

"It wasn't dumb," her mother countered. The older woman was still very tightly wound, Finch realized, but the argument was over – at least for the moment. "You're right. I taught you to be curious and you were." She nodded toward Reese. "But you should have told me right away."

"I didn't want to go home," the girl answered sadly.

"I know. Go eat."

The teenager looked around the room, then shrugged sadly and went out.

Kostmayer cleared his throat.

"Not a word," Elizabeth warned. "Not a fucking word."

"Wouldn't dream of it." But the older operative was either too foolish or too confident to leave it alone. "She is her mother's child, isn't she?"

"Shut up."

The older operative grinned wryly. "Was he really twice your age?"

"No."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Twenty-four years. And that's not the point."

"Right. Because you weren't sixteen. You were like, twenty, right? Twenty-one?"

Lily glared at him, but her anger had eased back. "I was old enough to buy beer."

He snorted.

" … and three pack mules," she continued, "and load up the beer and a bunch of ammo and bring it to you in those mountains in Cambodia where you idiots got yourselves pinned down."

Kostmayer grinned. "We weren't _exactly_ pinned down …"

"Bullshit."

"Fair enough. But Helen's not a child. You're gonna have to let her grow up sooner or later."

"Later," Lily answered firmly. She looked at Finch, and then at Reese. "I'm sorry for the unpleasantries," she said sincerely. "And thank you for your help. You are free to go."

Finch looked to his partner. John shook his head. "If you don't mind," Harold said, "I think we'll stay. I would very much like to know what's on that film."

"Me, too," Reese added.

Elizabeth glared mildly at both of them. She was clearly surprised, and more than a little exasperated. But they were secondary on her list of aggravations, well below her inquisitive daughter. She looked to Kostmayer again. He shrugged, and then she did. "Thank you."

"I've got a darkroom at my place," Kostmayer said evenly.

"I'll stay here," Reese offered, "and keep an eye on the house."

Finch stood up. "Shall we take my car?"

* * *

Misha climbed into the van, shaking his head. "No go, Boss."

Gusav scowled. "I figured, when I saw the address."

"What's the problem?" Black demanded. "Just go in there and get her."

"Can't be done," the boss told him. "Too much security."

"You brought guns, didn't you?"

"It's not a question of guns. A neighborhood like this, they've got fences and gates, cameras, alarms, everything. And that's before you get close to the house."

"Dogs," Misha added. "I saw dogs."

"Shoot the dogs," Black snarled. "Climb the wall and shoot the damn dogs and get her."

"Tthe cops will be here in sixty seconds," Gusev told him.

"And they're all on alert now," Misha added. "Everyone inside."

"Because you're idiots. Idiots! You can't pick up a teenage girl on the street. How damn hard is it to pick up a teenage girl! I thought you were a gang, but you're just a bunch of bumbling idiots. Morons!"

"Hey!" Gusev barked back. "You watch your mouth."

"I should have called the Armenians. They aren't a pack of cowards and idiots."

"Then go call them!" Gusev shouted. "Go! See if they'll even talk to you, you little troll."

"Maybe I will. And maybe I'll call Moscow on my way." Black reached for the door handle. "Can't even pick up a girl. Mother of God."

"We'll get her," Gusav snapped. "We'll find a way to lure her out."

Black shook his head, but he didn't open the door. "You'd better."

Gusev looked at his lieutenant. Misha nodded, just a little. He understood the plan perfectly well. Whatever happened, however they got the girl or her mother – when this was over, the little pain in the ass Black, or whatever his name was, was getting a bullet in his brain.

Then the man said, "I have an idea."


	13. Chapter 13

The former operatives went out to the garage together. Reese reclaimed his jacket and earpiece. Kostmayer turned over his phone. He didn't let John have his weapons back, and Reese didn't push it. They understood each other. They might have a new-found trust, but it was narrow.

Finch got his own phone back and set up an effective four-way comm for them. Before they left, Kostmayer crowded Reese in the narrow entranceway. "Just so we're clear," he said quietly, "I know we're all friend now, but if that comm goes down for any reason while I'm gone, I'm gonna get really nervous, and I'll probably take it out on your friend."

"Likewise, I'm sure," Reese answered simply.

The older man grinned. "I love working with professionals."

* * *

"Mama," Sarah Rose said, "can we go bowling?"

The boys hovered behind her, but the youngest was definitely the spokesperson.

"Dishes all done?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yep."

"Go ahead, then."

Reese was about to protest; they had largely identified the threat, but leaving the house now was a terrible idea. The children headed for the basement stairs.

"There's a bowling alley in the basement?" he asked.

"Billiard room, too," Zane answered. "And a theater. And a bar. Locked."

"Because I'm sure your children don't know how to pick locks."

"Fair point."

"I'd like to take a look around. Get a feel for the house and grounds."

Elizabeth nodded. "I'll come with you."

By habit, John reached back to check his weapon. It wasn't there, of course. He straightened his shirt instead. The woman's eyes glinted in amusement.

They walked through the ground floor of the house. From a security standpoint, it was very tight. Finch-safe-house-level tight. Reese nodded in satisfaction.

They called the dogs and went out to check the grounds.

"I was in Bosnia," Reese said. "Infantry."

Elizabeth glanced at him. "Good. They needed infantry there."

"It was a mess," he agreed. He looked up at the tall wall that surrounded the yard. There was a thin line of razor wire at the top, invisible from the outside. Nasty. And effective. "But I never saw anything that made me want to cut all my hair off."

"You were infantry. You didn't have any hair."

"True." Reese grinned crookedly. "You want to tell me about it?"

"No."

John sighed quietly and continued his walk-through.

* * *

Mickey Kostmayer's home was only a few miles from the Zaccardi estate. It might have been on the other side of the world. The neighborhood was half-way through gentrification, but the building the man stopped in front of had not been updated in probably fifty years or more. There were clotheslines strung between posts and bikes leaning against front stoops. Every car parked on the street was more than ten years old. Two streetlights were out.

The loft on the second floor of the building, however, was remarkably well-furnished. It was a comfortable space, clearly the home of a man who lived in blue jeans, nothing formal or fancy, but it was spacious, clean and well-maintained.

There were literally hundreds of framed photographs on the walls. But the very large photo on the far wall stopped Finch in his tracks. It was a picture of a young boy's face. He was seven or eight and very serious. There was something about his eyes.

They were the eyes of a child who knew he was about to die.

There was nothing else clear in the photo, nothing to indicate the danger the child might be in. No sign that he was trying to escape. Just the eyes.

It hurt to look at, and Finch could not look away.

"You get used to it," Kostmayer said at his elbow. "This way."

He walked to the far side of the loft. There was a room that had clearly been added after the original construction of the building. It was sealed off by a steel door with a heavy-duty electronic lock. On the outer wall of the addition were twelve framed pictures, all covers of art books.

"Anne Keller," Finch read in surprise. He recognized the name, of course. Anne Keller's work in combat and conflict photography was legendary. Her stunning photos frequently splashed across the front pages of national newspapers, and of course now the internet. He looked again at the large photo of the boy's face. His impression that the boy was about to die seemed more reasonable now that he knew who'd taken the photo.

Kostmayer nodded. "My wife." He keyed in the security code and opened the door. "Don't mess anything up in here or she'll kill me."

Inside was a large, professionally-equipped dark room.

"Oh, my," Harold said.

"You okay, Finch?" Reese asked immediately over the comm.

"Yes, fine. Thank you. I just … most home dark rooms are not nearly so well equipped."

In addition to the usual development equipment, there was a large safe. Finch assumed that it held the more expensive camera equipment, and probably her negatives and proofs. It would be fireproof, to a large degree.

On the side of the safe there were more photos, not framed but stuck on with magnets, a small private gallery hidden away from casual visitors.

Kostmayer handed him the film and retreated to a soft chair in the corner. It was obviously his spot, where he could keep his wife company while she worked without being in the way.

Finch surveyed the work space while he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve. Everything he needed was available and conveniently organized. It had been years since he'd developed film, but with the process so neatly laid out before him, he felt perfectly confident. He opened the film canister and got to work.

When he had the process underway, he looked around the room again. The photos on the safe drew his attention. In contrast to the professional photos that lined the walls outside the darkroom, these seemed like family snapshots. The subjects were casually posed, smiling. There was one of Kostmayer with his arms around a lovely woman; Ms. Keller, Finch assumed. In the next one was just the man and a very large fish. There was one of Scott and Becky McCall with a young man in a graduation gown, and a second of the same graduate with a much older man. Then a photo of the older man with a second man of the same age, with a prominent brow and chin and a sharp nose. Between them was a younger woman. It was years old, but Harold recognized Yvette. "If you don't mind me asking," he gestured to the photo, "how do you know the Zaccardis?"

Kostmayer grunted. "A better question would be, how do _you_ know them?"

"I attended a party at the house once."

"You an artist?"

"I was dating an artist at the time."

"Robert McCall," Mickey pointed casually to the man on her right in the photo, "was Yvette Zaccarrdi's father."

"So she's Scott's sister."

"His half-sister."

Finch gestured to the picture of the two men with Yvette. "Then would this be Mrs. Zane's late husband?"

"He was Yvette's godfather."

"What the hell is he looking at?" Mrs. Zane demanded over the comm.

"Family pictures," Kostmayer answered easily. "He hasn't got to the one of you in Berlin yet."

She groaned audibly. "Do you still have that?"

"In the darkroom."

Finch looked further down the row of photos. The last one was indeed Mrs. Zane, though he doubted he would have recognized her. She was wearing a t-shirt and jeans. A bottle of vodka dangled from her fingertips. Her face was turned up to the bright sunlight. There was a crowd around her, a celebration.

She was standing on top of the Berlin Wall, and it was being torn down around her.

"Ohhhhh," Finch said warmly. He remembered that day, everyone at IFT crowded into the cafeteria, watching the scene unfold on the television mounted in the corner. _Days_ , he corrected mentally, the celebration had gone on for days. The world was changing and everyone wanted to watch. The revolution had indeed been televised …

That was where the Cold War had ended. And a new world had been born. They didn't realize then that the new world would be so much more dangerous.

Mrs. Zane had been a very beautiful young woman.

Finch wondered what she would think if she knew that he, personally, had replaced the old repressive governments that she'd help to dismantle with something so much more insidious, invisible, and inescapable.

The timer sounded, and he went back to work.

* * *

Helen Zane stepped through the doorway that separated the bowling lanes from the bar. She didn't bother to turn the lights on as she pulled her phone out.

There were two messages from Hailey. Both read,

 ** _Are you coming to the movies?_**

Helen texted back quickly,

 ** _Mom's blowing a gasket. No way in hell I'm getting out tonight._**

As she moved to put the phone away, a new message pinged. This one was from Dylan.

 ** _Meet me at ten. Gonna be off the chain._**

Helen made a face. She wasn't sure anyone said _off the chain_ any more. And of course there was no way she could go. Her mom had already almost killed one guy today – _literally_ almost killed him – and Helen wasn't about to risk Dylan's life, too.

He wouldn't get it, and Hailey wouldn't either. Normal kids scratched the car and said, _my mom's going to kill me_ , without ever thinking that might actually be true. Not that her mom would ever hurt _her_ , Helen thought, but someone else? She wasn't sure when she'd first realized that her parents, both of them, were that kind of different. But it had been most of her life. Other people's parents might scream and shout about situations. Helen's parents just _handled them_.

And when they _handled them_ , the situations went away.

Other people's parents took them to baseball games. Helen's did, too. But they also took them to the shooting range. Other people's parents played hide-and-seek with them. But they didn't make it an all-day, highly competitive exercise in evasion and concealment like Helen's parents did.

Other people's parents drove them home from school. But they didn't take one of a dozen different routes at random every day.

Other people's parents hadn't been spies. Helen's had. And that came with a lot of cool perks – like knowing how to use a gun long before she could legally drive a car. And driving a car long before it was legal, too. But it also came with a lot of drawbacks.

Reluctantly, she texted back to Dylan,

 ** _Can't do it, under house arrest. Sorry_** **.**

From the alley, Michael called, "Helen, you're up!"

"Coming!" she called back.

Dylan texted a frownie face.

 ** _You'll miss all the fun._**

 ** _I know. Sorry._**

 ** _Next week. Rocky Horror. Be there._**

Helen was pretty sure she'd be in another country by the next weekend, but she didn't try to explain that to Dylan.

 ** _I'll try._**

"Helen!"

She hit send and put her phone away.

* * *

"Weeelllll," Kostmayer said slowly, his word revealing his long-abandoned Texas drawl, "this looks like a whole lot of nothing to me."

Finch nodded his agreement. They had the twelve photos spread out on the counter, the white lights back on. At first glance he couldn't see a single thing that would warrant the abduction of a teenage girl.

"What are you seeing?" Reese asked in his ear.

"A dozen perfectly ordinary photos of Time Square," he answered. They had all been taken from the same location, and Finch was willing to bet that location was directly in front of the wax museum. Mid-day, he guessed from the lighting and the crowd. No single subject in focus. Tourist snapshots. "So why was our mysterious man so determined to hide them?"

"Maybe he caught something," Reese mused. "Someone's husband or wife out with someone, and he wanted to hide the evidence until later?"

"Maybe." Kostmayer leaned over the prints with a magnifying glass. "Lot of people to look at."

"But he couldn't be sure the film wouldn't get jostled into the trash and taken out," Elizabeth countered.

Finch cleaned up the darkroom thoroughly; there was nothing out of place. He dropped the empty film cartridge and canister into the waste basket, but since the basket was otherwise empty he retrieved them and put them in his pocket instead.

"Everything good there?" Kostmayer asked.

"All quiet," she answered.

"We'll bring the prints back. Maybe we can spot something. Make more coffee, will you?"

"I'm on it."

Mickey looked around the dark room one more time. "Good," he said. He scooped the pictures into a stack. "Let's go."

Finch picked up the magnifying glass and followed him out.

* * *

Dylan Kozlow checked his phone one more time at the bus stop. He was pretty sure the girls weren't going to change their minds and meet him. That was too bad. But there were always lots of girls on the prowl at the outdoor movies. He shouldn't have any trouble.

He heard brakes squeal and a car horn sound, but the noises were all a part of the city; they didn't grab his attention.

He barely glanced up when the white van pulled up in front of the bus stop.

He didn't even see the man who grabbed him until he was being crammed into the back of the van. And by then it was too late.

* * *

Joss Carter was about to get into the shower – she showered in the morning before work, but on a day like this one, a cool shower before bed was pretty much a requirement if she wanted to get to sleep – when her phone buzzed.

She growled in annoyance as she picked it up off the counter. She didn't care who was dead at this point; they could stay dead until she had a shower and a couple hours of sleep. And if it was Reese – but surprisingly, it wasn't the precinct or John. "Agent Moss," she said, surprised.

"I hope I didn't wake you," the FBI agent answered.

"No, it doesn't look like I'll ever get a chance to sleep again. What's going on?"

"I wanted to talk to you when I knew you were away from the precinct."

Carter looked around her bathroom. "Well, I am now."

"That … event … we spoke about. It's scheduled for Tuesday morning."

The detective let out a slow breath. "Okay."

"For security reasons we've made a special arrangement for the judge to hear the matter in closed court on Monday after hours. We'll hold the paperwork for as long as we can. But word's going to get out. As you know."

"So this would be a good time to take that vacation I've been thinking about."

"I would say so, yes."

"I thought we had another week or so."

Brian Moss sighed. "The bigger fish want to move it before the case corrupts."

"I can see their point."

"Sorry I couldn't give you more warning."

"No," Carter said. "This is fine. I can make it work."

"Call me if you need me."

"Thanks, Brian."

She clicked off the phone. It would be a little bit of a scramble, getting tickets bought, rooms booked, getting packed. She'd wanted a little more time to shop. And to get Taylor ready. But it wasn't like the old days, either, when taking her son somewhere required a stroller and a playpen and a ton of other equipment. He was big enough to pack his own bag and carry it, too. But she needed to get busy.

Right after she showered.

She slipped her robe off her shoulders, and her phone rang again.

"Brian?"

"Sorry to disappoint you," Reese said quietly.

Carter laughed softly and shrugged her robe back on. "That'll teach me to check my caller ID. What do you want?"

"I need to know if anything went down on Time Square today."

"I'm sure _lots_ of things went down on Time Square today. You want to be more specific?"

"Anything that would involve the police."

"What, like somebody getting shot in the kneecaps?"

"Especially that, since I wasn't there," Reese answered, amused. "Maybe a mugging, a stolen car, something like that."

"I can ask," Joss said. "But as hot as it's been, reports are way backed up. They might not be filed yet."

"Maybe you could check with dispatch," Finch said, "and let us know about any calls that were placed from that vicinity."

Carter moved her phone down to look at it. She hadn't realized that John's partner was on the call. "I hate it when you do that. I want you to know that."

"My apologies, Detective."

"I'll see what I can find out."

"We appreciate it."

The call went dead. Joss clicked off her phone again and set it down. She started to take off her robe again – whatever the boys were up to, it could wait twenty minutes while she cooled off. Then she paused, picked up the phone, and took the battery out.

It was just a cool shower. But she wanted to take it _alone_.

* * *

"Gusev's boss in Russia," Kostmayer reported, putting his phone away, "is Grigory Cherkashin."

"Cherkashin?" Elizabeth repeated. "Didn't you kill his father?"

"His uncle," Mickey answered. "Great-uncle, maybe. It's hard to keep track."

"Is that information helpful to us?" Finch asked carefully.

Kostmayer shrugged. "Maybe. We've got a some intel on him, a little leverage, but not much."

Reese continued to scan the photos spread on the coffee table with the magnifying glass. "These were all taken in rapid succession," he said. He pointed to a man walking a white poodle in the first photo. "This guy, he's here, and then here, and then here." He pointed to different photos.

"And here," Elizabeth added, pointing to one where just the back half of the dog was visible. "So these were all shot in the time it took him to cross the Square."

"Taken in rotation, as well," Finch added. He demonstrated with empty hands. "First to the left of the photographer and then turning slowly to his right. But whatever he was photographing – it's not obvious."

"They look like burn-off to me," Kostmayer said. "When Annie gets near the end of the roll, she'll just point and click until they're gone, so she can load a fresh roll for the next important thing."

"But this was the whole roll," Elizabeth countered.

"The cheapest possible roll," Finch observed. "Maybe he was testing a new camera?"

"Which brings us back to, why hide it?" Reese said.

"And why try to snag the girl who picked it up?" Kostmayer added.

They sat in silence.

"If I had use of a computer," Finch finally offered, reluctantly, "I could probably access the security cameras at the wax museum. We could identify the man Helen saw drop the film."

There was another long silence. Reese watched while the Kostmayer and the woman exchanged looks. They knew each other well enough that neither had to speak. They didn't like the idea, either of them. But they didn't have any other leads to follow. Elizabeth stood up, walked to the desk, and brought a laptop out of the drawer. "Will this do?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Carter called back. There had been two cars stolen off Time Square, one minor traffic accident, three pockets picked, and four reports of shoplifting. Reese made notes, then thanked her and hung up. The cars had both been stolen well after Helen Zane had left the area. The fender-bender was in the early morning. Two of the shoplifters had been caught at the Disney store, a third at the Hershey shop, and the last at an electronics store. Only the last one seemed even remotely likely to be involved. The victims of the pickpockets had all been from out of town.

Elizabeth brought him more coffee. "I let the dogs out," she reported in general.

Reese glanced up in time to see the three of them romp past the French doors and out onto the dark lawn. At least Bear was enjoying himself.

Still, it was better than being zip-tied to a chair.

* * *

 ** _Need to talk to you._**

Helen frowned at her phone screen.

 ** _Call me._**

 ** _Need to see you. Can I come in?_**

The girl's heart raced. Could Dylan come in? Hell no, Dylan couldn't come in.

 ** _No. Where are you?_**

 ** _Outside the gate. Really need to see you. Emergency._**

She looked at her siblings. The boys were sprawled at opposite ends of the long couches in front of the big screen TV, engrossed in some old Bond movie. Sarah Rose was on the floor, half asleep.

 ** _Be there in a minute._**

She stood up. "I'm going upstairs."

"Tell your boyfriend hi," Robert smirked.

"Shut up."

"Night, Helen," Sarah said sleepily.

"Night."

She went up the stairs, thinking furiously. She wasn't going anywhere with Dylan, obviously. If she could sneak out and get down to the gate, she could at least tell him to go away in person. But it would be tricky. All the alarms were on, and her mom and Mickey were both on high alert. Plus those other guys were still here.

And maybe, _maybe_ , Dylan was involved with the guys who'd tried to grab her. Her mom sure thought so. But then her mom was suspicious of any guy who so much as looked at her. But he might be, somehow. And him showing up at the gate was a little stalkery.

But him on the outside of the gate and her on the inside – she was pretty comfortable with that. It was a lot better than if he pressed the buzzer or tried to climb the wall.

Helen hurried up to her room and looked out the window. She could see a white van parked down by the gate. Dylan didn't have a car, and his brother drove some kind of little Prius thing, but maybe he was with friends.

Dylan always seemed to be broke; he was always getting his older brother to pay for his lunch. So his emergency was maybe about money.

Helen grabbed two twenties out of her sock drawer – American money still looked weird to her – and brushed her hair quickly. She also stashed a weapon, just in case. Then she trotted back downstairs.

The alarms would be on, sure. But she knew the alarms like the back of her hand. Because Mom had insisted.

The door to the study was open. The adults were all looking at a bunch of pictures on the coffee table. She stuck her head in. "I'm going up to bed," she said.

"Night, Helen," Mickey called.

"Let the dogs in before you go up," her mother added, "and reset the alarm, please."

"Will do."

 _Well_ , Helen thought, _that made things a lot simpler._ She went to the front door and opened it, then whistled softly. The Rotties raced around the corner of the house to her, and the other dog came right with them. They barreled past her into the house, skidding on the bare tile.

Helen Zane simply stepped outside and closed the door behind her.


	14. Chapter 14

Reese heard the dogs rumble through the kitchen like a herd of small buffalo. They trotted into the study and circled the coffee table, greeting their humans as if they'd been gone for days. One of the bigger dogs ambled back to the kitchen and drank noisy from the water dish. Bear sat at John's feed and nudged his hand until he rubbed his ears. "Glad you're enjoying yourself."

The dog panted happily.

"I'm almost in," Finch reported from the desk. "If I can just …"

The Rottweiler in the kitchen barked, just once.

The dogs in the study immediately turned at way, at full attention.

The first dog barked again, and then barked repeatedly. It was a deep warning, a protective bark. Reese rose to his feet. The other dogs moved, out to the kitchen and then with the first dog to the front door. John followed them, with Kostmayer and then the others.

Mickey peered through the window. "I don't see anything."

All three dogs kept barking, insistent. Kostmayer slapped at a switch, and the yard was suddenly fully illuminated. Reese scanned the area, but nothing moved.

Kostmayer opened the front door and let the dogs out. They ran, still barking, down the driveway and out of sight.

"The gate's open," Mickey said.

The children ran up from the basement. "What's going on?" Robert asked.

"Where's Helen?" Elizabeth shot back. Then she turned and shouted up the stairs. "Helen!"

There was no answer.

Kostmayer pulled a weapon from the back of his waistband and handed it to Reese. Then he drew a second one for himself. "Weapon up," he snapped at the children. "But be damn sure of your target." He stepped into the yard. Reese followed him.

"Helen!" Elizabeth yelled up the stairs again. But this time she seemed to know there would be no answer.

The remaining children ran past her up to their rooms.

Finch took a step toward the woman, then stopped. She was coiled like a snake. Her hands opened and closed at her sides. She moved to the doorway and looked out over the starkly-lit yard.

The dogs barked at a great distance.

"Surveillance cameras," Finch said quietly. "Where are the monitors?"

She turned and looked at him. Her eyes were dead, flat. Terrifying.

They looked exactly like the eyes of the boy who was about to die in the photo in Kostmayer's apartment.

"There," she said, lifting one hand.

Finch hurried to the door at the side of the kitchen.

* * *

As expected, the gate was open, only a few feet. There was no movement on the street, no sound of any vehicle nearby.

No sign of the girl.

The dogs were still barking, but they were circling on and around the street, aimless. They had no scent to follow.

Kostmayer whistled the Rottweilers back, and Bear came with them without command.

"You think it was the same guys?" Reese asked.

"She wouldn't have opened the gate for them," Mickey countered. He looked and listened for a moment more. "She knows better."

Reese caught an odd glint in the grass. He walked over and picked up the girl's phone. "So much for tracking her."

"GPS wouldn't be on, anyhow." Kostmayer took the phone and scrolled through the texts. His face, already concerned, grew thunderous. "Dylan," he pronounced.

"You think she ran off with him?"

"Without her phone? Not a chance."

"At least not willingly."

John looked around again. There was nothing to tell them which way they'd gone with the girl.

But there was a camera. And another. "Let's get back inside."

Kostmayer hesitated. "Helen?" he called loudly. "Helen!"

There was no answer.

They went back to the house.

* * *

"Anything?" Reese asked as they hit the door.

"Yes," Finch answered. He was in a little closet-like room off the kitchen. "Here."

The four of them crowded into the room. He showed them the feed from home system's surveillance camera. Three men in a white van. And a fourth, a skinnier man with his hands bound behind him.

"That's Dylan Kozlow," Reese said. "And that's the guy from the Institute."

"So they got the boy, too," Mickey said.

"Bait," Elizabeth said. Her voice was flat, tight.

There was no audio. On the screen they watched while one of the men held a gun to Dylan's head. Helen appeared at the other side of the gate. They clearly threatened the boy. He cowered.

Helen Zane opened the gate and went out. They manhandled her and the boy both into the van, slammed the door, and sped away.

The dogs appeared a very short time afterward.

"It looks like she dropped her phone on purpose," Finch mused.

"She didn't plan on the dogs," Mickey answered. "She wanted us to know where she'd gone."

"I'm going to get her," Elizabeth announced.

"We'll get her," Kostmayer answered. "But we need to find out where she is first."

"We know they went that way."

"They're to the highway by now," Reese pointed out. "And we don't know what direction they'll go from there."

She touched Finch's shoulder. "Can you find out?"

"Yes," he promised. "But it will take time."

Her hand tightened like a talon.

"I can buy us some time," Kostmayer said. He gripped her wrist until she released Finch, then moved her back into the kitchen.

* * *

"I don't care what time it is," Kostmayer snarled into his phone. "Get Cherkashin on the phone _now_. Tell him it's Kostmayer, and tell him he really, _really_ does not want to keep me waiting."

He wrapped one arm around Lily. She was like holding a bundle of tight-stretched cable, but at least she let him hold her and didn't punch him in the kidneys.

The kids came down. They all had their weapons tucked behind their backs, their hands free. They all stood at what was basically parade-rest, waiting for instructions.

On the other end of the phone, a heavy, sleepy voice said, "Kostmayer. I thought you retired."

"I did," he snapped. He moved away from Lily so that he could pace. "Your goons over here, Gusev and his crew, just kidnapped a young girl in New York City. I want her back. Right now."

"I don't know anything of this …"

"Cut the shit, Cherkashin. I got a drone over your place right now. I can end you before you can hang up the phone. I'll do it, and you know it. So call Gusev and tell him to give the girl back. Now."

There was a long pause. "It's not quite that easy, I'm afraid."

"That's too bad. 'Cause it's real easy for me to push a button."

"The people I answer to. They have no interest in this girl. They want her mother."

Kostmayer looked at Lily. She was standing by the open doorway, looking out over the yard. He was glad the phone wasn't on speaker. "Why?"

"More specifically, they want her files."

" _Fuck_ ," Mickey said, but silently. "Why?" he asked again. "Those files are nearly twenty years old. There's not any actionable intelligence left in them."

"You're wrong, Mikhail. Most of the subjects are dead, it's true. But those few who remain, some have risen very high in your government now. Very high indeed."

Lily stared at him. At the mention of the word _files_ she'd realized what was going on. Reese was still in the dark, but he was watching, listening too.

"So you get these files," Mickey clarified, "and we get the girl?"

"That is the arrangement that's been explained to me, yes."

Kostmayer nodded to himself. "It will take us a while to retrieve them."

"You'll be contacted shortly by my associate."

"Right."

"I'm pleased that you're going to be so reasonable about this, Mikhail. When I heard you were involved, I feared you would be difficult."

"There's no one in those files I care about," Mickey answered. "But I do care about the girl. So listen up, Cherkashin. If anything happens to her, if she comes back with so much as a scratch on her, I'm going to kill Gusev and all his people here. And then I'm coming to Moscow to kill you."

The Russian laughed. "Why don't you use your drone?"

"Because I want to watch you die."

There was another laugh, less convinced. "I will pass the word on, my friend. Not a hair on her hair is to be harmed. So long as we get what we want."

"Trust me," Kostmayer answered, "I'll make sure you get everything that's coming to you."

He clicked the phone off.

Lily said, "They know who I am."

"Yeah."

"You're Lily Romanov, aren't you?" Reese asked quietly.

She looked quickly at her children. "I haven't used that name since before Helen was born."

"Where _is_ Helen?" Sarah asked.

"She's gone," Reese said. "But we're going to get her back."

* * *

Helen Zane surveyed the room as calmly as she could. They'd only driven about fifteen minutes from where they'd taken her, but they'd gone fast for half of that time, highway speed. They hadn't slowed for any tool booths, so she was pretty sure they were still in Brooklyn. They'd dragged her and Dylan up seven back steps to a back entrance of an empty school, then up two flights of stairs and down a long hall to a room. She guessed from the furnishings that it had been the teachers' lounge rather than a classroom; there was one Formica-topped table, a battered old couch, a couple chairs, a sink and a refrigerator. They had one overhead light working and four box fans. Everything smelled like old cigarette smoke.

There were four men, maybe twenty-five to fifty, Caucasian, casually dressed. The younger two didn't speak. The oldest was a hundred pounds overweight and he was clearly in charge. The next-oldest was his lieutenant. He was the guy who'd tried to grab her earlier.

All carried hand guns.

They hadn't blindfolded her, or Dylan. That was bad.

They hadn't searched her. That was good.

They had zip-tied her hands behind her back. Bad. But they hadn't bound her feet. Good.

They'd dropped them onto a thin, musty old gym mat that was shoved against the wall. Helen listened intently. There was outside noise, traffic and such, but nothing close. The building was abandoned and distant enough from houses that no one would hear her if she screamed.

Behind her, Dylan started to murmur, "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God."

"Shut up," the lieutenant snapped at him.

Dylan stopped talking and just whimpered. Helen could feel his body shaking. "Stop," she said quietly. "We're okay."

"They're gonna kill us," he whispered hysterically. "They're gonna kill us."

Helen took a deep breath. That was probably true, actually. The lack of blindfolds told her that. But it was obviously a hostage situation, and until the men got what they wanted in exchange, she and Dylan were probably safe.

They hadn't hurt either of them yet, except for some scrapes and bumps from being grabbed and dragged. But it was hot and they were tense; that could change. "Dylan, breathe," Helen ordered firmly. "Just calm down and breathe. We're okay. Don't piss them off."

"You should listen to your girlfriend," the oldest man said.

"What do you want?" Dylan cried. "I told you I didn't have any money …"

The big guy punched him in the head, and Dylan fell back onto the mat. He was still moving, murmuring, but he was mostly out.

The man looked at Helen. "You're good, right?"

"I'm good," she promised. She scooted back on the mat so she could put her back against the wall and stayed quiet.

The man moved away to the others. They seemed to be waiting for something, or someone.

Dylan quieted.

Helen almost wished he was still awake, still panicking. Without the need to calm him, she had to fight down her own panic. And it was there, it was real. She couldn't deny that. She was in deep, deep shit. The men who had snatched her were pros. She was in precisely the kind of danger her mother had most feared. _They will use you, and your brothers and sister, to get to us, if they can._ It had never been explicitly stated that that danger had been greatly reduced when her father died, but Helen had known. He had been the spymaster. Her mother had just been his lieutenant, his right hand. They had always figured that it would be the U.S. government that came after them.

These guys weren't government. But they might have been hired by them.

But if this was the danger her parents had most feared, it was also the danger they had most prepared her for. So she shoved her panic into a little red box in her mind and concentrated on her training. One: Determine status. She had that pretty well covered. Two: Inventory assets and liabilities. Dylan was probably a liability; he wouldn't be any help and he might be in her way. Her feet were free, so she could run if she got the chance. Her captors were pros, so they'd be watchful, organized, and careful. But they would underestimate her because of her age and gender.

Helen leaned harder against the wall, until she could feel the hard touch of the leather hidden against her spine. That wasn't any help yet, unless she could get her hands in front of her or free. And she knew her training wasn't enough to let her take on four trained men with guns with one short blade. But surprise was an asset, and one knife in one gut would mean one less man chasing her.

Ascertain escape routes. She looked around the room. She knew they were on the third floor. There would be fire escape somewhere nearby, but probably not in the teachers' lounge. There would be multiple stairways, one in each direction down the hall. But there was only one door out of the room, and all four men between her and it.

Determine course of action. Helen felt her panic rise again. She didn't know what to do. Move now, surprise them and flee? She would have to leave Dylan behind if she did. And it felt like the odds of her getting away were very small.

She crammed the panic back into the box. The fact that _move now_ made her so anxious told her that it was the wrong answer. There was no imminent danger. She could wait.

Wait, and see what developed. Wait and believe that her mother and her uncle were coming for her. Wait, stay alert, watch for opportunities.

The big guy's cell phone rang. He answered it in simple Russian. " _Da_?" He listened, then turned and looked at Helen. "I understand. Of course." He hung up and turned away again.

Helen took a long breath, counting to ten as she inhaled and ten again as she exhaled. Then she did it again. Keep breathing. Keep her muscles relaxed so they wouldn't be tired later. Keep watching. Keep her feelings boxed, keep her head clear. Watch, and wait.

"Mom," she said, very softly.

* * *

"How did they find us?' Reese wondered aloud quietly, when Elizabeth – Lily – had taken her children into the other room.

"They followed you from the Institute," Kostmayer answered.

John shook his head. "No."

"Perhaps young Mr. Kozlow told them where Helen lived," Finch suggested.

"He didn't know." Mickey looked at the stack of pictures. Burn-off shots, throw-aways. They hadn't found a single useful clue in any of them. "Son of a bitch." He held his hand out. "You still have the film case?"

"The …" Finch took the empty cartridge and canister out of his pocket. "Oh."

Kostmayer opened the canister, dropped the empty cartridge onto the floor and stomped on it. He bent and picked the tracker out of the rubble. "Any way to trace this back?"

Finch took the tiny device and studied it. "Not now," he said sadly.

"He knew," Mickey said grimly. "He knew Helen would watch him, and he knew she'd pick up the bait."

"And he timed it," Reese added, "so she didn't have a chance to put it back before the van left."

"That means that whoever orchestrated all of this knew about Miss Zane's very … unique … upbringing," Finch said. "I don't think most ordinary teens would have given this man a second look."

"Oh, he knows," Kostmayer confirmed. "He knows about the files. He knows whose kid she is. If he watched her for any length of time, if he knew what to look for – yeah. It's predictable."

"Even if you give them the files," Reese said, "they're not going to give the girl back."

"Really," Kostmayer returned dryly. "I wouldn't have guessed."

"Do you have them here?"

The older man smirked. "We never had them."

"I might be of more assistance," Finch said, "if I knew what files you were talking about." He sat down behind the desk and began to work on the wax museum cameras again.

Reese hesitated. "Go ahead," Kostmayer said. "The story you know is the same one the guys who took Helen will know."

"The head of intelligence," John began, "the real head, not the figurehead who reports to the politicians, is called Control. It's a woman now. I've never met her."

"You aren't missing anything," Kostmayer offered.

"Every Control supposedly keeps a set of files on his enemies and potential allies. Politicians, business men, military, anybody in a position of authority, all their dirty little secrets."

"Black files," Finch said.

"Yes. Back before I joined, the man who was Control got involved with an agent. Romantically. She was supposed to be just a courier, but there were rumors that she was actually his hammer. His personal assassin."

"Lily Romanov," Finch said. He glanced toward the open doorway. The fiercely protective mother as a ruthless assassin? He could imagine that easily enough.

"She got called in to testify to the Intelligence Committee about one of those killings," Reese continued, "and to cover her ass, and his own, Control married her and then claimed spousal privilege."

Finch nodded, still probing the museum's firewall for weaknesses.

"She moved in with him, and very shortly thereafter he had a conveniently-timed stroke while his home safe happened to be opened. She took his files and all his money and left him for dead. She told the Agency that if they came after her, she'd burn everybody in the files. Then she left town. When I was training, we were told if we ever saw her, we were to turn around and walk the other way. They were still scared to death of her, and that was years later."

Harold looked to Kostmayer. "What happened to the files? I assume you know."

"Sure I know," he answered. "She doesn't have them. She never did. She gave them to the next Control."

"Why?"

"Because he was in on it," Reese guessed. "He helped her escape."

Kostmayer nodded. "Partly."

"And where is _he_ now?"

"Dead. We lost him in the Towers."

"But these men don't know she doesn't have them."

"No one does," Mickey agreed. "That's the story the Company was told, that's the story they bought. So whoever took Helen – they're connected, somehow. And they know who Lily is."

"But what's the _true_ story?" Finch asked.

Kostmayer considered, then nodded to himself. "The Company doesn't like to let agents go." He nodded to Reese. "You already know that. They'd rather kill you than let you walk out with their secrets in your head."

"I know."

"So you can figure how they'd feel about letting _Control_ go."

"Control leaves the office feet first," John answered. "Retired with extreme prejudice."

"He sure as hell doesn't get to elope with his favorite courier, buy a big old house on the ocean, and raise a pack of kids in peace."

Finch's hands paused over the keyboard. "Control didn't die."

"Nope. Well, not until two years ago. They faked the stroke. Lily took the files and the money. She told the Company not to come after her, and to stick Control in a fancy nursing home and take care of him for the rest of his life. And the CIA was scared enough to do what they were told."

"You swapped the bodies," Reese guessed.

"We found a vet with no family rotting in a VA hospital. He got to live out his days with the best care the Company could buy. And he got visitors. McCall, his kids, Yvette. Me. Hell, even his replacement drove up to see him a couple time a years."

"The new Control," Reese said, "got the files, so he had leverage to start his new job."

"And the money. Control needs a slush fund."

"And the former Control," Finch said, "simply left town, met up with his bride …"

Kostmayer nodded. "It was a little more complicated than that, but basically, yeah. The Company never looked for him because they thought they knew where he was. And they didn't look for _her_ because they were scared she'd burn them."

"And that was twenty years ago?"

"Seventeen. Lily was pregnant with Helen. That's what kicked the whole thing off. She wanted out and some suit over Control wouldn't let her leave. Even after Bosnia. So they scammed the Company and split."

"And you helped," Reese said.

"Sure I did."

"The children all look alike," Finch said. "They all have the same father."

"I told you. They bought a big house on the coast and lived happily ever after. Until two years ago, when his heart gave out."

"Why on earth would she bring her children back _here_?" Finch asked. "She had to know this was the most dangerous city to bring them to …"

"She didn't think anybody would recognize her," Reese answered. "Especially not without Control. It's been a long time. And she looks even older than she is."

"New York is her home," Kostmayer said simply. "We convinced her that the kids needed to know how to live here. We didn't think …" He shook his head. "Honestly, we didn't think there was any real danger any more."

"But someone recognized her. Someone from her Company days."

"And not these Russians," Mickey said. "She did the Kessel run for a while early on – in and out of the Soviet Bloc – but Cherkashin wouldn't know her from Adam."

"I'm in," Finch announced. He scanned through the video of the World Leaders section. "Here's Helen."

The two former operatives leaned over his shoulders. He pointed to the screen. "There." He let the video run.

"That's Hailey Bright with her," Kostmayer offered, pointing to a young blonde.

"So where's the furtive man?"

"There." Reese pointed. "Dark, small – that's him."

"Can you get closer?" Mickey asked.

"Perhaps." Finch manipulated the view as well as he could. It wasn't particularly cooperative, but he managed a fifty percent zoom.

They could all see that the man was indeed acting, as Helen had said, shady. "He would have caught my attention," Reese said.

"Stop," Kostmayer said. "Go back, slowly."

Finch rewound the video.

"There. Stop there."

The frame froze on a half-way decent view of the man's face. It was still blurry and distant.

"Facial recognition won't be much use, I'm afraid," Finch said.

"Don't need it," Mickey told him. "Lily!"

She hurried into the room. "What is it?"

"Take a look at this guy. Tell me who you think he is."

He stepped back and let the woman take his place over Finch's shoulder. Then he put his arm around her, tightly. "Son of a bitch," she said as soon as she saw the image. "That's Peanut."

"Peanut?" Reese asked.

"We should have killed him," Mickey said.

"We should have left him in Bosnia," Lily snarled back. "Creepy little son of a bitch."

"You knew him in Bosnia?" Reese asked. "So he would have recognized you."

Finch leaned closer to the screen. "I think I might … it's hard to be sure."

"His real name is Pavle Racz," Mickey said. "We smuggled him out before the war got started good. He was JNA, but he wanted to desert in the worst way."

"Asset?"

"Supposedly. But really, his lover was high up in the Company and wanted him safe in a new home."

" _Fuck_ ," Lily said. She turned and paced away from them quickly. "He doesn't want the files. And he doesn't want Helen."

"He wants you," Mickey said calmly.

"Why?" Reese asked.

"Because I burned his lover on my way out the door, and the Company killed him."

"You outed him," Finch asked carefully, "for being homosexual?"

"I outed him," Lily answered, "because he tried to have my husband killed. So when the Company brass needed an example, he was my first choice. The fact that they were rabidly homophobic just made it easy to convince them."

Finch frowned and looked back at the screen. "You're sure this is him?"

"We're sure."

Harold worked an internet backchannel and managed to bring up a photo of the man from his time with the Serbian army. He was much younger, of course, but dark-eyed, dark-haired, olive skinned just as Helen had described. And also, he was familiar.

"I know this man," Finch announced.

"You do?" Reese asked, surprised.

"He's currently using the name Peter Prifti. He's the night auditor at the Coronet Hotel."

"The Coronet …" Lily's knees seemed to buckle and she sat heavily on the couch.

"You been there?" Mickey asked.

She nodded. She was pale now, her fear showing for the first time. "One night last week." She wrapped her hand around the big emerald she wore around her neck. "We went there once, Andrew and I. For a weekend. I just wanted to … oh, God."

"We'll get her back," Kostmayer said firmly.

"He doesn't want her. He wants me."

"But he had the Russian crew pick her up," Reese pointed out. "So he doesn't have people of his own."

"No. Without Masur's connections, he's probably just a working stiff."

"They want the files," John continued. "And they won't lay a hand on her until they get them."

"Files," Finch offered quietly, "are easy to create, if you remember the names."

"I remember," Lily answered.

Kostmayer nodded. "Then I think the first thing we do is take control of the situation." He looked to Finch. "Prifti. You think you can find out where he lives?"

Finch nodded in return. "I think I can manage." He glanced at Reese. There was no point in telling the others, at this point, that he had immediate access to such information because he owned the hotel where Prifti was employed. Unnecessary information.

"Good. I think I'll go shake him up."


	15. Chapter 15

By the time Dylan came around, he was a lot calmer. He scooted around to sit next to Helen against the wall. "Who are these guys?" he whispered.

"Russians," she answered. She knew that much from the snippets of conversation she'd heard. They mixed the two languages together in a sort of pidgin stew, twenty-five percent Russian and the rest English, with a lot of idioms. That told her they were probably second-generation immigrants. She didn't know how or if that tidbit of knowledge would ever be useful.

"What do they want?"

"I don't know."

"I want you to shut up," the lieutenant called.

"Yes, sir," Helen answered clearly.

"But how do we …" Dylan whispered.

"Shhhh." Helen leaned sideways until her shoulder was pressed against his. The boy was trembling. He was scared. She knew she should be scared, too. No. She shouldn't be scared. She should be calm and focused. She should keep thinking. She should keep breathing, stay in control, keep her fear crammed in its little red box.

She would have time to panic later. When she was safe.

Maybe.

Just for a moment, she trembled, too.

* * *

Mickey Kostmayer didn't bother trying to pick the lock, though he knew he could have. He simply kicked the door in. It took him two tries, and his artificial knee reminded him of why that wasn't something he did any more.

He welcomed the pain. It made him meaner.

The apartment was a small efficiency in a grimy neighborhood. But it was overstuffed with very nice furniture. A silk loveseat, a velvet armchair. More velvet on the single bed, and over the windows. Statues and artwork everywhere. Thick carpets, so plentiful that they overlapped.

There was no sign of Racz.

Kostmayer checked the bathroom, which reeked of probably-expensive cologne, and the closet. Then he hit his earpiece. "He's not here," he reported.

"Anything to say where he went?" Reese answered.

"Looking." Mickey went to the desk – mahogany and way too big for the space – and rifled through everything on the top. Then he started pulling out drawers.

"He's not at work," Harold provided. "He was scheduled, but called off."

Mickey paused and looked around. He crossed and looked under the bed. Nothing. "I want to know who he cares about."

"Alright," the man answered hesitantly. Kostmayer knew he didn't like what Mickey was likely to do with that information, but he didn't argue.

"Anywhere else he goes?"

"Not that I can see at first glance. He seems to spend most of his income at art galleries and antique stores."

"I can tell."

"He frequents the restaurants nearest to his home. Other than that …"

Kostmayer ripped through the closet. Cheap suits and silk pajamas. "Damn it."

"Any chance we can track his cell, or his car?" Reese asked.

"He doesn't own a car," Harold answered. "And his cell is a cheap prepaid model."

"So now what?" Mickey sighed.

"So now," Lily said clearly, "we poke him with a stick."

* * *

The woman was wrapped in an unnatural, frozen calm. Reese was careful not to disturb it. He could see that Finch wanted to try to comfort her, but he warned him off with a look. Elizabeth Zane – Lily Romanov – was in full operational mode. She was the operative she had been years before. She was highly functioning, highly efficient. She was likely to be deadly toward anyone who interfered with her.

She pressed the numbers on the phone with careful precision, then hit the speaker button.

The phone rang six times, and then a man snarled, "Who is this?"

"Hello, Peanut," Lily said.

" _You_." There was two decades of rage in his voice.

"I want my daughter back." The woman, in contrast, was completely expressionless.

"And I want my lover back, but that's not going to happen, is it?"

"Jason Masur tried to kill my husband and failed. He knew he'd be killed."

" _You_ betrayed your husband. And then you had Jason killed. You betrayed everyone!"

"Where's Helen?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I would, yes."

"You'll never see her again, you bitch."

Reese looked up. Lily's three younger children were crowded in the doorway, all wide eyes and attention. He waved them away, but of course they didn't budge.

"Oh, I'm sure I will," the mother answered, still dead calm. "I know that Azarov Gusev has her. I know that he's under orders from Moscow to get Control's black files. I know that he has a young daughter of his own, and I know where she lives. So he's highly motivated to see that no harm comes to Helen. I know that he doesn't like you, or trust you. And that there's no reason we can't cut you out of this deal right now."

"He can't," Racz barked. "He needs me to verify the files."

"Like you'd know what was in the files."

"He doesn't know that."

"I can have Cherkashin tell him."

There was a pause. Reese could tell that the dark man was unnerved that Romanov knew who the contact in Russia was. He nudged her hand.

"We've already talked to Grigory," she continued. "He agrees that it's not in his interest to let any harm come to my daughter. So I don't see where you have a whole lot of room to negotiate, Peanut."

" _Don't call me that!_ "

Lily nodded grimly.

They could hear the man breathing heavily on the other end of the phone. Finally he seemed to gather himself. "I don't want your daughter anyhow. I want you."

"Of course you do."

"So you'll bring the files, and you'll meet me. In the morning. Six o'clock."

"Where?"

Racz snorted. "I'll tell you ten minute before you need to be there. You'll need to drive fast."

"Fine."

"Gusav gets the files. I get to kill you. Your daughter goes free."

Reese nudged her hand again. "And the boy," he mouthed silently.

Romanov rolled her eyes. "And the boy," she answered.

"What boy? Oh, him. Fine," the man answered absently. "You'll bring your friend Kostmayer with you, of course. I'll want him in plain sight, unarmed and a safe distance away."

For the first time her hand shook. Reese wrapped his fingers over hers. "Of course," she answered steadily. "But Peanut? We know where you live and we know where you work. You lay a hand on my daughter and I will end you."

He chuckled unconvincingly. "See you in the morning."

"Racz. I want to talk to Helen."

"Oh, I'm sure you do."

"If I don't hear from her in the next hour, I will call Cherkashin and tell him I'm about to drop a house on him. And he knows I can do it."

"You really think you hold all the cards here, don't you?"

"I hold enough cards," Lily answered, "to be sure that if my daughter doesn't come home safely, your life will come to a slow and painful end."

"I could just kill her now."

From the doorway there was a muffled whimper. Reese looked at the children sharply. Finch went to stand with them.

"No, you can't," Lily answered, still dead calm. "I don't know who you thought I was when you came after me, Peanut, but you were wrong. Gusev is more afraid of me than he is of you. He won't let you hurt her."

"We'll see," he snarled.

"You're a nasty little man who never had any authority except the rank your father bought for you. And now you have nothing but a tiny apartment full of tacky antiques and too many rugs. You think you hold some power here, but you're wrong."

"I'm going to kill you."

"You're going to try," she corrected. "See you in the morning."

She clicked off the phone.

Then she drew her arm back and hurled it against the wall.

* * *

Helen guessed it wasn't quite midnight when the creepy little guy from Madam Toussad's came in.

The Russians all jumped when they heard the footsteps, and the three underlings drew weapons. A Beretta, a Glock, and a Colt revolver. The Colt had some of its shine worn off; it was really old. She didn't know when she'd use that information, either.

The big guy had a Glock of his own, but he didn't bother to draw it.

They all relaxed when the dark little man came in. So he was with them. Shit.

He stomped over to the mat and glared at her. "Get up."

Helen blinked. "I can't."

"Get her up," he ordered the men.

Nobody moved. "She's okay," Gusev said. "Leave her alone."

The little man stomped onto the mat and grabbed her by the arm. "Up!" he ordered.

"Leave her alone," Dylan said.

 _It would have been more impressive_ , Helen thought, _if his voice hadn't cracked_. Still, she gave him points for trying.

The man released her and punched Dylan. His head snapped back and hit the wall, and then slumped forward.

Then Rat-Face hauled Helen to her feet.

"You know who I am?" he demanded.

"No."

"Your mother killed the love of my life."

"Leave her alone," the big guy said.

"Shut up!"

 _Personality assessment_ , Helen ordered herself. He'd punch a kid who's tied up. But the Russians had no respect for him. He was little and mean. A bully. Bold with people who were helpless, but not strong on his own.

He turned back and got right in her face. "I gave up everything for him. Everything! And your whore of a mother killed him, just like that!" He snapped his fingers. "Like he was nothing."

She forced herself to be bold. "If he was that easy to kill, he must not have been very important."

He pulled his hand back to hit her. Helen braced for it. But the blow never came. When she looked back at him, the big Russian was holding the little guy by his wrist. "You're not going to hurt her," he said firmly.

"You fucking coward. You're afraid of her mother. Of a woman."

"We don't beat up kids." He yanked the dark man off the mat. "Leave her alone."

Helen sat back down and squirmed up to the wall.

The little man glared at her, but he didn't come after her again. "If doesn't matter," he said. "I'm going to kill her anyhow. And then I'm going to kill you."

Dylan made a frightened little noise.

"And you," the man added.

The big guy's phone buzzed. " _Da_?"

The smaller man stormed to the other side of the room, muttering darkly.

" _Ya_ ," the big guy said. "Understood."

He clicked off the phone and walked toward Helen.

"You're all a bunch of fucking cowards!" the little man shouted.

"Shut up," the big guy answered. He sat down heavily on the edge of the mat. "Your mother wants to talk to you."

Helen took a sharp breath. Suddenly all the fear that she'd boxed up was right there, flooding her brain. She'd been okay, she'd been handling it, but now the idea that she could talk to her mother, hear her voice, let the panic nearly overwhelm her.

She was smart and she had training. But in that moment, embarrassingly, all she could think was _I want my mama_.

"You're not going to tell her anything about where you are," the Russian said, "or how many of us there are, or what weapons we have – nothing like that. If you do, I'll walk out of this room and leave you with him." He jerked his thumb toward the angry dark man. "You understand?"

Helen nodded, blinking back tears. "Okay."

"What's her number?"

* * *

Finch looked over the list of names and whistled softly. "Impressive."

"Andrew was very thorough," Lily answered quietly. "I know the names, but what was inside the files …"

"That's not important," Harold assured her. "I'll create dummy data, format it as if it were reports and charts and such, and encrypt it."

"We'll tell the Russians," Reese continued, "that they can have the encryption key when we have the hostages."

She nodded. "Good."

"This still doesn't get _you_ out, though."

"The Russians don't give a shit about you," Kostmayer said. "If they get the files, they're out. That just leaves Racz."

"They won't let you carry a weapon in," Reese countered. "They will search you."

"It doesn't matter," she answered simply.

"We're not going to let you just march in there and surrender yourself to be killed," Finch protested.

"No," Kostmayer answered, "we're not. And that's where we'll need you." He nodded to John. "If you're still in."

"We're in," Reese answered firmly. "What's the plan?"

Sarah appeared at the doorway again. "Mama?" She held her phone out like it was a bomb.

Lily snatched it. "Helen?"

"Mama?" the older girl repeated.

Kostmayer nudged her, and the mother clicked the speaker button.

"It's okay, baby. I'm coming to get you."

"I'm sorry, Mama. I know I screwed up."

"Yeah, you did," Lily answered gently. "But we'll fix it. Are you hurt?"

"No. I'm okay. Dylan's … he's okay. They said they want some files …"

"I know. They can have the files. There's no one I give a rat's ass about protecting in them."

"But this other guy, Mama, the guy from the museum, he wants to kill you."

"Shut up!" an angry man said behind her.

"I know," Lily repeated soothingly. "I know all about him, too. Don't worry about it. I'll handle it."

"Mom …"

"Helen. Keep your head down. Stay calm. I'll come get you in the morning. It'll be okay. I promise."

The girl laughed sharply, half-way to a sob. "At least I remembered to put my good bra on before I went out," she said, in a forlorn attempt at humor.

"Well, see, that's a good thing, anyhow. I suppose clean underwear is too much to hope for."

This time the short laugh ended in a gasp.

"Just keep your shirt on, Helen. I'll handle this."

"We'll see you in the morning, Mama," a deep-voiced man said.

"She'd better not have a mark on her, Yuri."

The man chuckled and the call went dead.

"Not long enough to trace it, I'm afraid," Finch said.

"That's okay." Lily handed the phone back to her daughter. She seemed suddenly calmer. "Now we have a plan."

"We do?" Reese asked.

"We do," Kostmayer assured him.

"I assume you're half-way decent from a distance?" Lily asked.

"Adequate," Reese answered modestly.

"Then you handle the Russians. I'll deal with Peanut."

* * *

Root stared at the ceiling of her cell, watching the fluttering light through her window. A flag waved lazily out in the courtyard, making random patterns in front of a security light. There had been one night when she'd thought it was a message from the Machine. But it was only the breeze.

She knew the Machine was trying to reach her. So far her idiot captors hadn't left Her any means to do so. They knew about the Machine, at least enough to stand in Her way. For a while. But sooner or later the Machine would break through. Sooner or later …

And in the meantime, she had a new playmate.

 _If the Machine can't come to me_ , Root told herself, _I'll have to figure out a way to get to Her._

It wouldn't be easy, of course. Everything about her days was structured, monitored, planned. Everything except this new playmate. And the new thing was the thing to be exploited.

 _Any exploit is a total exploit_. Harold had written that in several of his papers. Root knew it was true. Give her room to get her fingernail under the door, and she could find a way to rob the vault. It was true of computing, and it was true in life.

Shaw was the tiny crack she needed. The space to get her nails under the door.

Of course, they'd be watching to see how she tried to exploit that crack. Control might be slow-spoken, but she was smart. And also ruthless, or she wouldn't be Control. It was a game between them, and Control thought she had the upper hand because she had a pawn to play.

Root would need to be patient, she told herself, and careful. But not too careful. She didn't want Control getting discouraged with their game. It was a long game now. A slow grind. But in the end, Root was certain she would be free.

And then she and the Machine would make Harold regret the day he'd locked them both away.

Root grinned in the darkness and let the dancing light lull her to sleep.

* * *

"I'm really sorry," Dylan murmured.

"It's okay."

"No. I should have fought them harder or … something. I didn't know what they were going to do until I saw you come out of the house. I just thought … I don't know what I thought."

"It's okay," Helen said again. "My mom will get us out of this."

He looked across the room. The four Russians were playing poker. The little dark man was in the corner, leaning back in a chair, maybe sleeping. "Is your mom like Rambo or something?"

"No. She used to be a courier."

"A what?"

"Never mind. Just try to sleep now. Tomorrow, stay close and follow my lead. We'll be okay."

"How can you be so calm? You been kidnapped before or something?"

"No, this is my first time."

"Yeah. Mine, too." He shifted around until he was lying on his side on the mat. "I hope it's my last."

Helen stayed where she was, with her back against the wall. No, she'd never been kidnapped before. But her parents had prepared her, from before she even went to school, just little games at first that she didn't realize until later were really serious training. Hide-and-seek took on a whole new meaning when you found out your parents were former spies. They'd never made it scary. It was always a fun challenge – can you find a hiding place in the house where we can't find you? How about in the woods, or by the water? How about in the city? Can you put five rounds in the center mass of a target at twenty yards? How about thirty? Or fifty? You're eight now, let's teach you how to drive. How to build a fire. How to find water in the wild. How to track your father through the grass. How to tie knots, and how to get out of them. How to escape from this room, and that room, and the room on the third floor. It had all been taught in terms of games, all rewarded with hugs and encouragement, with discussion and suggestions over ice cream after.

And despite all of that, she was tied up on a dirty mat in an empty building, a prisoner of a bunch of second-gen Russian immigrants.

But her fear, even when she let it out a little, was greatly diminished now. Because even though she hadn't learned enough to get herself out of this yet, her mom, who had taught her all of it, and her Uncle Mickey, and the guy with the fake badge who was obviously One of Them, and the guy with the glasses who she couldn't begin to figure out – they were all coming for her.

Mom said it would be okay. Helen believed her.

She closed her eyes and rested, though she did not sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

Just after two in the morning, as Finch put the final touches on the mock files he'd created, Mrs. Romanov put a fresh steaming cup of white tea down at his elbow.

He couldn't help remembering another time when another woman had brought him tea while he worked at her computer.

"Thank you," he said. She had a mug of her own in her hands; coffee, by the smell of it. She clearly had no intention of sleeping.

They were the only ones awake. Reese and Kostmayer were stretched out on the two couches, both breathing evenly. Finch knew that if he called either of their names, no matter how quietly, they'd be awake instantly. But for the moment they were genuinely asleep.

They'd moved the coffee table, and the children were sprawled on blankets on the floor between them. Kostmayer had tried to convince them to go up to their own beds, but they were sure the adults would try to leave them behind if they did.

All three dogs were curled among the children's legs.

Finch had deep reservations about taking the children along to the meet with the Russians, but he had been preemptively overruled. The boys had made one convincing argument: If they were left at home, who would protect them if someone came to the house? Little Sarah had an even better counter: If they were left alone, they'd simply steal a car somewhere and follow the adults.

Harold didn't have the slightest doubt that Mrs. Romanov's eclectically-trained children could and would steal a car. So perhaps having them in plain sight was the best solution.

"You should get some rest," Lily said quietly.

"I don't think I could," he admitted. He gestured toward the sleeping former operatives. "I've never understood how John could do that."

"Basic training. Eat, sleep, hit the can whenever you get the chance."

"I suppose." He looked at her. She looked genuinely older, worried and tired. "You should try …"

"No." And then, "You want a sandwich or something?"

"Are there any cheddar biscuits left?"

"I think I know where Mickey hid them."

They went to the kitchen and got out biscuits and butter. The woman, Finch noted, was very quiet now. Despite her earlier rigidity, the late hour softened her and she seemed fragile. "I'm sure your daughter is alright," he said.

"She's a little girl," Lily answered. "She's alone and she's scared."

 _She has Dylan_ , Finch thought, but that hardly seemed like a useful comment. "Unless I'm wrong, she has more training than a great many professional operatives. You and your husband did everything you could to prepare her for an event like this."

Her hand went to the emerald that she wore around her neck. "It was just to make us feel better. The training. They were never supposed to have to use any of it."

"When did he die?" Finch asked. He already knew the answer, but he wanted to give her the opportunity to keep talking.

"It'll be two years in September," Lily said. "September 11th, of course. It always haunted him. Like Frodo on the anniversary of Weathertop."

Harold smiled gently at the reference. "You'd already left when the Towers came down, hadn't you?"

Lily nodded. "When it happened, Andrew wondered – we both wondered – if he could have made a difference. If he could have stopped it if he'd still been in charge. But then the intelligence started to come out and that … changed our understanding."

" _Bin Laden Determined to Strike in the US_ ," Finch remembered aloud.

"There were other warnings. Most of them weren't made public, but …there were others. Many others. All summer intelligence officials had been running around with their hair on fire. They were all disregarded."

"You think the government allowed the attack?"

She shrugged. "I think they got the excuse for the war they wanted," she answered precisely. "They got to send troops to Iraq. And a bunch of them got very rich behind that." She shifted. "In any case, the VP hated Andrew from back in his SecDef days. He didn't listen to Simms – his replacement – so he sure as hell wouldn't have listened to Andrew."

She picked at her biscuit, but didn't take a bite. "That day, the day he died … he was quiet. I knew it bothered him, but neither of us said anything. We were going to grill steaks for supper. He was out in the yard, in the hammock. Reading a book, maybe taking a nap. I went out to wake him up to start the grill. And he was gone." She shook her head. "His heart, they said. They don't think he ever woke up."

"That sounds very … peaceful." Harold was certain that his death, and John's, would not be that easy.

"It was." She tugged on the emerald. _Her_ death, Finch realized, would not be that easy, either, if Racz had his way. But she wasn't thinking about herself. "I never should have brought them here."

"You couldn't have known. Your chance encounter with Mr. Racz …"

"This city is full our enemies," she answered. "I relied on the odds. A city this big. But I got careless. I went back to a place I'd been before. I was wrong."

Finch chewed his biscuit slowly. There was nothing he could say to dissuade her from taking on the guilt of her daughter's abduction. The most he could do was act as a sounding board for her.

"We'll get her back," she said after a moment. "I don't know how we could make this work without you and John. So in case I don't get to tell you later – thank you."

"You can thank me after you have your daughter back," Harold countered with all the certainty he could muster.

They were quiet again. Lily took a single bite of her biscuit, then put it down and pushed her plate away. "This thing you do. Helping random people. I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but sooner or later this is going to bite you in the ass."

"It already has."

"No. It will bite you harder than you can recover from."

"I suppose that's inevitable," Harold conceded. He noted that she was trying to turn the conversation away from details about herself and onto details about him.

"But you're not going to stop."

"I can't. I have a … responsibility. A debt."

"It will kill you, then."

"I am aware of that probability."

The woman's eyes narrowed. She considered his answer. Accepted that she could not change it. She sighed and sipped her coffee.

"Is that why you cut your hair?" He tried to pivot the conversation back. "Because you helped someone and it went wrong?"

"Bosnia," she pronounced. "Srbrenica."

Finch was grimly unsurprised.

The woman went expressionless, her eyes a thousand miles away. "There was a boy. His name was Aamir. He had green eyes."

She pulled on the emerald so hard that the chain bit into the skin of her neck. "Stop," Finch said quietly, touching her hand. "Stop."

Lily blinked, surprised. Then she eased the tension on the chain. She shook her head and began again. "Before the air strikes, before we sent troops, the supply routes to the villages were mostly cut off. The U.N. had relief centers, but the people couldn't get to them on the roads. They had to hike down the mountains, through the forest. They'd go in groups, on dirt roads and game trails, all these farmers and shop keepers and teachers, they'd hike down and carry food back. They weren't equipped, they weren't strong … whole families starved because they didn't have anyone to make the trip for them."

"I used to embed with them," she continued. "It was the easiest way to move intel, just go with the pack. People knew I wasn't from their village, but they didn't care, everyone was displaced, on the move. I'd hike down, load up on food, grab or drop intel, and hike back up. But I didn't need the food, not all of it."

She stopped, sipped her coffee again.

"Aamir lived with his mother and his sister. They didn't have anyone to make the hike for them. They would have starved. But I gave them the food I carried in. I kept them alive. So this boy who would have died in his sleep, he lived. Until the soldiers came. They rounded them up, the men and the boys, and they took them to a field outside the village and they killed them in the mud." She placed her hands flat on the table. "They shot the men. But the boys, they saved their bullets and just beat them to death."

Finch wanted to ask her to stop. He didn't want to hear the end of this story. He didn't want to know about the boy. He'd seen enough ugliness and tragedy in his own life. He didn't want to know about this boy half-way around the world. Or about this woman across the table, about what had damaged her so badly. He just didn't.

But he could not betray her. He could not leave her alone with her memories.

He placed his hand over hers on the table.

"We found the mass grave," she said. "We found the boys. Aamir was there. His eyes were wide open. His big green eyes. They'd cut his head off with a shovel."

Finch closed his eyes, because he could not bear the look in hers.

After a moment she continued. "He would have died anyhow. He would have died with his family, curled up in a bed with his mother and his sister for warmth, they would have starved or frozen to death. But I saved him. I kept him alive. So instead of dying quietly in his sleep, in his mother's arms, he died in a muddy field, alone, terrified, with his head cut off with a fucking shovel."

Finch opened his eyes. "And you cut your hair and tore your clothes and sang your lamentations unto heaven," he said quietly.

"I cut my hair and tore my clothes and smuggled home the pictures that got the soldiers bombed straight to hell." She smirked painfully. "Basically the same thing. But I was done then. Done trying to save the world, done trying to save even one other person. I take care of my own now. Nothing more."

"I understand why you would feel that way."

Lily studied him. "You've lost a lot, haven't you? I can see it. But you're not ready to give up yet."

"Not yet."

"Why?"

"That … is complicated," Finch said. He knew she was turning the conversation again. He felt the very strong urge to retreat to his habitual Very Private Person stance. But the woman's hand was still under his, her fingers cold, and she had shared what he knew was her deepest secret, her deepest pain. "I have made terrible mistakes. I have done things that I deeply regret. But I have the opportunity to try to make amends for some of those things. I can … help people in an attempt to make up for those I've hurt."

"It will never be enough."

"No. All I can do is try. And keep trying, as long as I'm able."

She nodded thoughtfully. "When it bites you, if you survive, look me up. I've got lots of spare rooms. We'll sit on the porch and be cynical together. You can bring your running girl with you."

"My …" Finch started. "Oh. No, she's not … mine."

"She should be."

"Miss … Christine is a friend. A very good friend."

A tiny spark of mischief glinted in the woman's eyes, the first life Finch had seen in them for several hours. "Is that why your face twists around like that when you hear her voice on the phone?"

"My face certainly did not … it's just that I've been very worried about her … _we've_ been very worried about her," he corrected, too late.

"Okay," she said, clearly not believing him.

Finch was uncomfortable with the topic, but he was also gratified at the tiny bit of levity he's managed to give the woman. "All other considerations aside, and there are many," he said carefully, "she's a great deal younger than me."

"Oh, dear, the horror of _that_."

"Twenty-five years, was it?"

"Twenty-four."

"Did you ever regret marrying a man so much older than you?"

"No."

"Not once."

"No." After a long moment she went added, "What I regret? I regret wasting so much time. We were together ten years before we left the Company. I was very … stubborn. I thought I had a lot to prove. I regret that I wasted those years we could have had together."

Finch nodded thoughtfully.

"Does she know what you do?" Lily asked.

"Yes."

"Does she know why?"

Harold hesitated. "In part."

"The only reason that Andrew let me get involved in his life was that I went in with my eyes wide open. I knew exactly what I was getting into. And how it would probably end. Although … then it didn't. End the way we expected."

"You got out."

"We had a hell of a good life, Andrew and I. Way better than either of us expected. Or deserved. I wish we had had more time. But I don't regret one minute of what we had. Or anything I gave up to get it." She regarded him for a long moment. "So when your girl's done running, don't waste any more time. Tell her everything and let her in."

"No," he protested quickly. "It's not … that wasn't why I was asking. I'm not …"

"Oh, hush."

Finch's mouth started a few more protests, but none came out as words.

Bear walked into the kitchen quietly and sat hopefully at Harold's feet.

"You don't eat table scraps," Finch said firmly.

The dog wagged his tail.

"He has nice timing," Lily commented lightly. She stood up and went to refill her coffee cup.

Finch broke off a tiny bit of his biscuit and fed it to the dog.

* * *

Finch and Reese went out to the van with Kostmayer before dawn. "I know I have some gear here," the man muttered. He tossed several fishing rods and two tackle boxes aside.

"You enjoy fishing?" Finch asked absently.

"Used to. Before I had nothing else to do."

"Retirement doesn't agree with you?"

"It wears thin."

"You could always go back," Reese said. "I'm sure they'd welcome a man with your experience."

"Experience and two metal knees. They'd park me behind a desk. I'd rather fish." He pulled out a flat blue case. "Here it is." He flipped the case open. Inside was a single massive tangle of wires and headsets and comm units.

"Oh, dear," Finch said.

"Batteries are probably shot. I'll see what I've got."

Finch closed the case. "I'll just … get started with this, shall I?" He carried the case into the house.

Reese touched his counterpart's arm. "Are you sure she can handle Racz?"

"Lily?" Kostmayer nodded. "I'm sure."

"With no weapon?"

"She'll have a weapon."

"You want to share with the rest of the team?"

"Don't worry about Lily. Just handle your assignment. She'll handle hers."

Reese scowled and followed the older man into the house.

* * *

"There's a real good chance," Kostmayer said, "that your mom and I will both be off comm. So you listen to Reese, and you do what you're told. Understand?"

Lily Romanov's three youngest children nodded sullenly. They had all checked their comm units and were not, Reese was glad to see, fussing with them.

"Positive target acquisition is critical," he went on. "Do not shoot anyone unless you have to, and do not shoot anyone unless you're absolutely certain who they are. It's dark now, but it should be light by the time the meet goes down. That will help. But be positive. And remember your training. You've got the range time. You're qualified. Don't doubt that."

"I would really prefer," Finch said, "that we didn't shoot anyone at all unless it becomes absolutely necessary."

"Uh-huh," Kostmayer answered, unimpressed.

"Or at least not to shoot them fatally."

"Right." Mickey gestured to Reese. "The whole kneecapping thing. Sure."

"Our purpose," Finch insisted stubbornly, "is to _save_ lives. And to see that criminals face justice. Not execution."

"I'm more interested in saving Helen's life, and Lily's, than I am about saving the criminals."

"And Dylan's," Sarah added, very quietly.

"Yeah, him, too."

Reese looked at his partner. Finch had always been uncomfortable with firearms. The prospect of these three young children with guns in their hands made him visibly unhappy.

John wasn't crazy about the idea himself. He'd encountered child soldiers a few times, in Africa and in Bolivia; they were terrifyingly unnatural. On the other hand, he'd known children younger than Sarah who'd brought down their own ten-point buck. It wasn't the guns. It was the context.

He didn't like this context. With their sister's life on the line, and their mother's, these kids were likely to be erratic, emotional. It was a formula for disaster. Kostmayer's emphasis on target acquisition told him that he had the same concerns.

They couldn't leave the children behind alone. They wouldn't stay with Scott and Becky. Or with Finch, safely away from the action. They were trained, and like it or not, they were armed. He could either take them with him, so that he knew where they were, or he could risk them creeping up on him at the worst possible moment.

Reese hoped devoutly that none of them would need to fire a weapon. But he was resigned to the possibility. "Aim low," he advised the children, "and don't fire unless you absolutely have to."

Finch still didn't like it, but he didn't argue any more.

Lily Romanov didn't speak. She walked out to the dark driveway with them and hugged each of the children in turn. Then she loaded the three of them into her black SUV. Bear jumped in and scrambled over Sarah to get into the back. They'd talked about bringing the Rottweilers along as well, but with neither of their familiar handlers likely to be available, they might be problematic. Reluctantly, they left them behind.

The mother turned to Reese and held out the keys. As he took them, her hand closed over his. She still didn't speak. She looked at him and he could see that she was looking out of her own personal hell. She hadn't let her children see it. But he saw, and he knew, that she did not speak because she did not dare.

She didn't fear dying, if it would save her daughter's life. But saying good-bye to her children, knowing that it might be the last time, was torture. If she tried to say one word, she would fall to pieces.

He squeezed her hand back, hard, until she pulled away.

Lily touched Finch's arm in passing as he got into the passenger seat. Then she went up on the porch with Kostmayer and simply waved, as if they were leaving Sunday dinner.

Reese knew that they watched them until they were out of sight down the road, but over the comm he didn't hear either of them say a word.

At this point in the operation, there wasn't anything for them to say.

* * *

Just as it started to get light outside, four more guys showed up. They were about the same at the others, vaguely middle-European looking but with home-grown New York accents, twenty to thirty years old, fit enough to be menacing. They all looked over at her and Dylan, then went on to the empty poker table.

One of them had brought two boxes of donuts. Another carried eight paper cups of coffee in two carriers, one stacked on top of the other. Guzev, the boss, had stayed awake all night, but the others woke up to get breakfast.

From the darkest corner, Helen heard the little man's chair thump down and he half-staggered to the table. "Where's my coffee?" he demanded.

The man who'd brought it in looked confused. "I didn't bring you any. Who are you, anyhow?"

"I'm your client, you moron." He grabbed the cup out of the man's hand. But he grabbed too hard and crushed the cup, splashing the coffee all over his fist. "Son of a bitch!"

"Serves you right," Guzev chuckled.

"Shut up. Get me a towel."

"No towels here."

The dark man swore again. Then he stomped off down the hall.

"I'm hungry," Dylan said quietly. He twisted around and sat up. "And I gotta take a piss."

"Just wait," Helen said.

"Hey! I gotta take a leak!"

The lieutenant came over to them. "What?"

"I gotta take a leak," Dylan said, quieter. "Please."

The man checked with his boss with a look, then grabbed Dylan's arm roughly, hauled him to his feet, and pushed him towards the hallway.

"What about you, sweetheart?" Gusev called.

"I'm good," Helen answered. She wasn't, actually, but asking these guys to let her use the bathroom, with her hands tied behind her back, seemed like a tremendously bad idea.

The Russian made a face. He put down the remaining half of his donut, wiped his hands on a napkin, and strode over. "C'mon, sister. Let's go." He leaned down and picked her up by the shoulders.

If his flunkies snickered, they did it too quietly for him to hear.

The hallway was very dark. Gusev brought out a flashlight. He kept his other hand on Helen's arm. They walked past four classrooms and came to the restrooms. Helen could see light flickering inside the boys' room. The other was dark.

"Wait here," Gusev said.

Helen waited, with growing anxiety.

The dark small man came out of the bathroom, wiping at his shirt angrily with a brown paper towel. "What?" he snarled when he saw them.

"Get back to the others," Gusev said.

"You untie her, you'll regret it," he warned. "Just let her piss in her pants."

"I'll handle this."

"Fine." He stomped off, his footsteps echoing along the empty corridor.

"Should have brought him decaf," Helen said under her breath. But Gusev heard her, and huffed with a little laugh.

The other guy brought Dylan out of the bathroom. "You stay right here," the boss said. "This little girl gives me any trouble, you kill him. Clear?"

"Sure, Boss."

He turned to Helen. "This boy here? Nobody cares if they get him back, right? And I know lots of places to dump his body. You want him to die, you try something. Understand?"

"Understood, sir," she answered seriously.

"Sit down here and put your feet through."

"Why didn't you let me do that?" Dylan protested.

From the floor, Helen could see a small wet spot on the front of his jeans.

"Because it was funnier this way," the lieutenant answered.

Helen got her bound hands under her butt, then managed to pull her legs through so that they were in front of her. She walked into the bathroom. Gusev followed behind her. But he let her go into the one stall that still had a functioning door on it and lock it behind her. "Plumbing don't work," he told her through the door. "Water's off."

"Okay." She struggled some to get her jeans unbuttoned with her hands tied, but she was deeply grateful she'd been allowed to do it for herself. The idea of Gusev unzipping her jeans – or worse, the little man – gave her goosepimples. Rape was a tool of war, and of gang war, she knew, but her parents had pretty much glossed over that aspect of her training. Helen thought that was probably an advanced course. But there was also something in the air that said there was some history there. Anyhow, it hadn't been addressed enough to help her now. She was glad Gusev didn't seem to have that in mind.

 _He's a dad_ , she thought suddenly. _The dad of a daughter._ She didn't have a single bit of evidence to base that on, but she was pretty sure she was right.

She wriggled her jeans and panties down and sat down on the toilet seat. It had a gritty feel to it, and it was room-temperature, nearly hot to the touch.

Helen reached both hands over her head and touched the sheath between her shoulder blades. If she ran out of the stall, she could gut Gusev. But there was no chance she'd get to the lieutenant before he put a bullet between Dylan's eyes.

Her mom had told her to keep her shirt on.

She urinated, a lot, into the empty bowl. Then she stood and wiggled awkwardly back onto her pants.

She left her shirt untucked.

When she left the stall, Gusev made her put her hands behind her back again.

* * *

The clock on the dashboard read 5:50. And then 5:51. Over the comm, there was no sound of an incoming phone call. They were parked on a side street not far from the house, ready to speed to whatever address they were given as soon as the call came in.

"What do you think about?" Robert asked from the back seat, breaking the tense silence.

Reese glanced over his shoulder at the boy. "What?"

"Right now, when we're about to go in. What do you think about?"

"Oh. Logistics, mostly. Which weapons I have, how many rounds I have for each, what's the optimal range for each."

Beside him, Finch shuddered gently.

"And then whatever I know about my opposition. Numbers, size, training. Where they're likely to come from and what they're likely to do."

"Anything but the hostages," Michael supplied.

John nodded reluctantly. "It's better to consider them objectives, right now. But also, you have to never forget that they're people."

"Precious objectives," Sarah said.

"Exactly."

The clock ticked over to 5:52.

"If you were them," Michael asked, "where would you want the swap to be?"

John considered. The children were anxious, of course. They were also picking his brain. Learning his tactics, coming them to the ones they'd learned from their parents.

It occurred to him that if he came up against _them_ in the future, their knowledge of his thought processes would be an asset to them.

He shook his head. It wasn't the time for paranoia.

"They're city-born," he said. "Street fighters. Dangerous, but not trained. They know how they fight, and that's all they know. Now if it was me picking the location, I'd want a solid building behind me and open space on the other three sides. Clear sight lines."

"So they couldn't ambush you," Robert said.

"Or flank me. Exactly."

"But they could still get behind you," Sarah said, "if they could get into the building."

"True. So I'd want to have someone watching my back."

"How many guys do you think they have?"

"I don't know. That's an unknown variable. We'll need to adjust once we know."

Just as the digital clock changed to 5:53, they heard the phone finally ring.

"You're late," Lily snapped over the comm.

"I could be later," Pavle Racz snapped back.

"I want to talk to Helen."

"I want Jason to be alive."

She took an audible breath. "Where do we meet?"

"Grayton Elementary School. In the back. Come in the east entrance and park by the fence."

"Fine."

"Bring Kostmayer with you. No one else."

"Obviously."

"Ten minutes. Don't be late."

The call went dead.

"You on?" Kostmayer asked over the comm.

Finch already had the location up on the car's nav system. He nodded.

"On our way," Reese answered.

* * *

Two blocks directly north of the school, on a residential street, Reese parked the car and turned off the engine. Finch held the laptop out to him; it had StreetView up on the screen.

The school faced south. In the back was a parking lot that doubled as a playground. It was surrounded by a five-foot high chain link fence. There were side streets at each end and a main street along the back of the lot. The pavement was cracked and heat-dried weeks were abundant. At each end of the lot there was a gate in the fence; presumably parents had been able to drive up to the back door of the school to drop off or pick up their students.

"Okay," John said, after studying both views. "Michael." He pointed to the west end of the parking lot. "Here, behind this fence. Robert, east end, here. Use this garage for cover. There's only two ways in and out of this lot. You cover them both. Any vehicle tries to leave with any of the hostages, shoot for the engine."

"What about the front?" Sarah asked eagerly.

"That's where I'm going," Reese answered. "They'll be watching the back, where your mom will come in. I'll go in the front of the school and get behind them."

"And us?" Finch asked, with a careful emphasis that indicated the smallest of the children was staying with him.

"I want you behind the wheel," Reese said. "Sarah, on the comm." He reached past Finch and got small binoculars from the glove box. "You watch straight down this street. You've got a clear view of the door. Keep us up on what's going on."

She gave him a remarkably grown-up look. She knew he was giving her a made-up assignment. Reese hoped she was right. He hoped the fight never got close to her, or to Finch.

"And all of you, eyes on the building. We know they'll have one gun inside. I'll find him. But they may have more. Watch the windows. If you see motion or a lens flash, I need to know about it."

"This vehicle is base," he finished. "Anything goes south, get yourself back here. Nobody engages on their own. Clear?"

The children muttered.

" _Clear_?" Reese repeated.

"Clear," they answered in sharp unison.

"Then let's go." He got out of the car, grabbed his rifle, and whistled Bear to his side.

* * *

"What's happening?" Dylan whispered.

"My mom's coming," Helen whispered back.

"Is that good?"

"Depends on what side you're on."

* * *

Getting into the building from the front was easy. The windows had been boarded up when the school closed, but half a dozen of the boards had been loosened and two more were completely missing. Reese could tell by the scent that homeless people lived here even before he saw the cold burn barrels and heaps of refuse. In the current heat, they'd probably gone elsewhere, but they'd be back when winter came.

Bear crowded against his leg, but stayed silent.

John moved quietly through the halls to the back of the building. He found another kicked-out window and surveyed the parking lot. Still empty. He couldn't see either of the boys, which was good. "Everybody in position?" he said quietly.

"I am," one of them replied. He couldn't tell by the voice which one.

"Me, too," the other added helpfully.

"I'm sitting in the car like a baby," Sarah grumbled.

John smiled to himself. "Keep your eyes open, kiddo."

He pushed the bottom of the loose board further aside, so that there was an opening only a few feet from the ground. Then he pulled over a desk and patted it. Bear jumped up eagerly. He gave the dog the hand command for down, and Bear obediently dropped to his belly.

Reese rubbed his ears as a reward. "Stay here," he said, "unless I call you."

The Malnois cocked his head, then put it down on the desk.

"Good boy."


	17. Chapter 17

"I got two," Sarah reported, "coming out the back door." Her voice was squeaky with excitement, but clear. "Now there's a third one."

"Good," Reese answered.

"I don't see Helen, though."

"They'll bring her out later. Don't worry."

The men waited close to the building.

"Mom's here," Robert reported. "They just drove in."

"Where are you, Mr. Reese?" Finch worried.

"Hang on." There was a scuffle and then a thump. "Second floor, above the back door. Anybody spot any others?"

"Not yet," Michael answered.

"Keep looking."

* * *

Kostmayer looked across the car as the three men approached. Lily was pale and silent. "Ready?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "Mickey …"

"I know."

They got out of the car.

"Stop there," the tallest of the three men said. "You, come around the car. Both of you put your hands on the hood."

They did. The tall guy watched while his companions patted them down, very thoroughly.

"I usually have to pay extra for this," Mickey cracked.

"Shut up." The man pulled something out of his back pocket. "How come you got handcuffs?"

"I'm a very kinky guy."

"Cute."

"Boss says you're dangerous," the tall man said.

"Boss is right."

He pulled the car door open. "Over here." Kostmayer moved where he was told, and the tall man handcuffed him to through the steering wheel. "Sit."

"Fine."

The man punched him in the mouth.

He spit out a little blood. "That was unnecessary."

The man hit him again.

"Enough," a big man said from the back door. He looked around, then strode over to the car. A second man followed him, carrying a tablet. "You Romanov?"

"I am," Lily answered.

He held his hand out. "Where's the file?"

She handed him a thumb drive.

He passed it to the second man, who plugged it into the tablet.

A list of names appeared.

"Good," Gusev said. "Wise choice."

The man clicked on one of the names. "It, uh, it wants a key to open the files."

"Oh, yeah," Lily said, unconcerned. "I encrypted it."

"That wasn't our deal," Gusev protested.

"Our deal," she said, "is that you get the files when I get my daughter back safely. When she leaves her, with Kostmayer, I'll give you the key."

"Or," the Russian countered, drawing his weapon, "I could kill Kostmayer and you'll give me the key."

The woman's voice stayed dead even and largely unconcerned. "There might be a second key," she said, "that wipes the files. And there might not be any copies. Anywhere."

Gusev studied her for a long moment. Then he chuckled. "You're a clever one, aren't you?"

"You have no idea."

He nodded to his lieutenant. "Tell them to bring the kids out."

They started across the parking lot together. "You two," Gusev said over his shoulder, "watch him." He pointed toward Kostmayer.

"You got it, Boss."

* * *

Both of the men assigned to watch him leaned on the car, turning their backs to him to watch the proceedings nearer the school. Kostmayer leaned forward to wipe his bloody lip on his thumb. He dropped his handcuff key out of his mouth and into his hand at the same time. He wouldn't have believed they could be so dumb, to restrain him with his own cuffs. But Reese had predicted that they would and he'd been right.

It had been a long time since he'd dealt one-on-one with low-level criminals. He'd forgotten how bone stupid they could be.

By the time one of the goons looked over his shoulder at him, Mickey was sitting back, looking innocent, and his right hand was one sharp tug away from being free.

* * *

"You don't know who I am, do you?" Lily asked calmly. "You just snatched up my daughter without ever finding out about me."

Gusev glanced at her. "Kinda thought you'd be more worried about her."

"Helen? I'm not worried about her. I know she'll be just fine. It's you I'm worried about."

The Russian laughed.

"Those files you're so hot for. You know where I got them?"

"You stole them from the C.I.A."

"I stole them almost twenty years ago. You think they don't want them back? They wouldn't love to come after me? You think they don't want to see me in a shallow grave? But I'm here, in New York, with my kids. In plain sight, right in their back yard. Doesn't that worry you?"

Gusev looked at her again. His pace slowed a little.

"And your guy in Russia. Doesn't it worry you that when you call Cherkashin, you get some third-tier flunky who _might_ give him a message for you, but I call him the phone rings in his pocket?"

Gusev stopped dead.

"I tell Cherkashin to tell you to keep your hands off my daughter, and Cherkashin tells you to keep your hands off my daughter. Doesn't that make you wonder exactly what Racz got you into here?"

"Racz."

"Pavle Racz. He's a Serb ex-pat."

The Russian stared at her.

"You really didn't think this through, did you, Gusev?"

* * *

"Jesus," Michael whispered over the comm. "Mom's a badass."

Finch smiled tightly.

"She just took his lunch money," Robert whispered back.

"Don't mess with Mama," Sarah said. And then, "Something moved. Third floor, west end."

"Good," Reese answered. "I'm on it."

* * *

"Up," Racz said. He dragged Helen to her feet. "You, too."

Dylan struggled up.

"Boss wants them outside," one of the remaining guards said.

"Fine. That way. Go."

Helen moved out to the hallway, not quickly. The guards that had remained with them moved behind her. Racz shoved them aside, grabbed her arm again, and waved his gun at her. "Faster, you little bitch."

They reached the stairs, and Helen nearly fell. The little man hesitated, caught between holding her up and shoving her. He decided to hold her, but he shook her roughly. "Hurry up."

She glanced to her right at the second floor landing. She thought she saw someone move there, duck back around the corner. Someone who wasn't with Gusev's crew. She moved her feet a little wider apart, ready to catch herself if things happened on the stairs. But nothing did.

They were all bunched up. He didn't have any kind of a shot.

 _Wait for it_ , she told herself. _Be ready_.

She kept walking.

* * *

Reese had his weapon in his hand, but he let the group move past him in the stairwell. They were tightly bunched, and the little dark man stayed very close to Helen. He couldn't risk it. Not when he knew there would be better openings later.

The girl looked like she was in good shape. The boy'd been knocked around a little, but he didn't seem to have any serious injuries. All of that was good news.

* * *

"So here's how this is going to go," Lily said simply. "You're going to make sure my daughter gets out of here safely. I'm going to give you the encryption key. You're going to give the files to Cherkashin, and then you'll be square with him. And we're done. Clear?"

Gusev grunted.

"Or else," the mother continued, "Helen gets hurt, and in twelve hours Cherkashin shows up here in person and kills you, your men, and everyone any one of you cares about, to cover his own ass. Are we clear?"

"You're a little spitfire, aren't you?"

"You should've asked somebody."

"That's all good with me. This is just business. But Black, Racz, whatever his name is, it's personal for him. He wants you dead. Wants it bad."

"I'll deal with Peanut."

"Peanut, huh? That sounds about right."

"You want to walk away from this, Yuri, do not get between me and him."

"I don't think I want to."

He touched her arm, and they walked on toward the school.

* * *

John settled back in front of a window on the second floor. He had a good view of the woman, the Russian and his crew. He couldn't see Helen and the men with her; they were just below him.

"I saw a …" one of the boys began.

"Saw what?" Reese pressed.

"I'm not sure. I thought I saw someone on the fourth floor. West end."

"Harold?"

"We're looking," Finch replied.

"I'm not seeing … wait," Sarah said. "Yeah, I see him. Last window on the west side, top floor."

John growled softly. He didn't have time to get up there and handle him before the meet took place.

"I'll get him," Kostmayer growled quietly.

"You sure?"

"Son, I was picking off snipers when you were still picking grubs out of your grits."

Reese laughed against his will. "Okay, then."

"I see Helen," one of the boys said.

"She looks okay," his brother confirmed. "Her hands are tied behind her, though. Zip ties, I think."

"Not a problem," Mickey assured them. "Everybody hang tight."

* * *

The two groups met in the middle of the parking lot. Helen started forward to her mother, but Racz pulled her back roughly, wrapped one arm around her neck. "I don't think so."

"Let her go," Gusev ordered. "I have the files."

"Mom," the girl said, quiet and desperate.

Lily nodded, gave her daughter a reassuring smile.

Racz glared at Lily. "I was hoping you wouldn't be dead before I found you."

"Wish granted," she answered calmly. "Let my daughter go or I will kill you."

"With _what_?" Racz jeered. He drew a gun with his free hand and pointed it at Helen's head. "I think you forgot something. Stupid whore."

Gusev's lieutenant drew his own weapon. The others already had guns in their hands, but they got a lot more attentive once he did.

"Racz," Gusev said, "let the girl go. That was the deal."

The smaller man looked at him with open contempt. "I don't care about your deal. I have what I wanted. The girl and her mother."

"The files are encrypted," the Russian said. "She won't give up the key until her daughter leaves."

"That's clever," Racz admitted. "And unfortunate. For you. Because I'm not letting her go."

Gusev drew his own gun and pointed it directly at Racz's head. "Let her go."

Gusev's lieutenant turn his gun on his boss.

"What?" the Russian snapped.

"Been thinking," Misha answered, "maybe it was time I gave myself a promotion. Sorry, Boss."

Gusev pivoted so his weapon was pointed at his former right-hand man. "Oh, Misha. That was a terrible mistake."

Lily Romanov took a step toward her daughter and Racz.

* * *

"We have to do something," one of the boys said, his voice high with tension.

" _Wait_ ," Reese and Kostmayer ordered in unison.

"Very soon," Mickey continued. "But not yet."

"How do we know when?"

"We'll tell you when," Reese assured them.

* * *

John tapped his earpiece twice. "Finch?"

Finch cleared his throat. He glanced at the little girl beside him. She didn't know about their second channel.

"In your glove box there's a dog whistle. Get it now."

Harold leaned past the child and got the whistle out. He sat up and tapped it on the steering wheel. Though he could not see his partner, he knew Reese could see him through the scope of his rifle. There was a time when that notion would have made him uncomfortable, but it was long past.

"Is your window down?" Reese said in his ear.

He tapped the steering wheel once.

"Good. When I give you the signal, give it three short bursts."

Finch tapped the steering wheel once more. There was a brief click as Reese changed back to the channel the others were one.

"Is that a dog whistle?" Sarah asked.

"Yes."

"What are you going to use it for?"

"To call the dog, I suppose," Finch answered absently. He glanced at her. "If necessary."

"I can't see," the girl complained. "We should get closer."

Harold looked toward the school. He couldn't see much, either, except that the Russian and his men were surrounding Ms. Romanov, and that both hostages were on their feet, not seriously injured.

He could also see a lot of guns.

"We'll stay right here," he said firmly, "like we were told."

* * *

"He's not going to help you," Gusev said. "This little creep? You've got to be kidding. He's not even Russian."

"I don't need any help," Misha argued. "Once you're dead I'll just step into your job."

"And you think Cherkashin's going to go along with that."

"He will if you can't deliver the files."

"And these guys? You think they're going to go along with you?"

They both looked around. The other men, uncertain, began to lower their weapons.

"I'll kill you all," Gusev said. "Every last one of you bastards."

"Shut up," Racz snapped. "All of you. Shoot each other or don't, I don't care. Just shut up. I want to enjoy my moment with Lily. I've waited such a long time for this reunion."

"You talk too much," Lily said mildly. She took a step closer to him.

"Oh, are you in a hurry? You shouldn't be. Because you know what happens next?"

"I'm guessing you talk some more."

"First I kill your daughter. Then I kill you. Then I kill him." He waved the gun in Kostmayer's general direction. "And then I'm going to hunt down your other children and kill them, too. And anyone who tries to protect them. Because you killed Jason! He was the only one I ever cared about. So I am going to kill everyone you care about. Every single one. And all of their deaths will be your fault."

"Mom …"

"Thank you," Lily said. "I was asked not to kill anyone unnecessarily. But you just made this obviously necessary."

* * *

"Harold … now!" John said.

Finch blew three short bursts on the dog whistle.

Bear burst out of the building and ran toward the men with the guns, barking fiercely.

Misha aimed his gun at the dog, and Gusev shot his former lieutenant in the chest.

One of the other men aimed for the dog as well. Reese's bullet caught him in the upper thigh.

Kostmayer dropped his hand free of the handcuffs, reached between the seats for his own rifle, and picked off the sniper on the fourth floor in one motion. The two men who had been guarding him turned their weapons toward him, but by then he'd fired two more shots, shoulder and knee of the first, and the second simply laid down his weapon.

* * *

"Shit!" Dylan said. He dropped to the ground and curled up in a ball. A second later someone fell on him.

* * *

Racz turned involuntarily to look at the barking dog, and his gun wavered just for an instant.

Lily wrapped her arms around Helen and pulled her loose. The Serb snapped his head around and re-aimed his gun at her. It didn't matter. He was too late. The mother was inside arm's length.

She drew the blade smoothly out of the sheath strapped to her daughter's back and plunged it into Racz's belly in a single motion. Then she twisted, angling the blade upward under his sternum and toward his heart. She felt a gush of fluid over her hand as the knife sliced an artery. She gave the blade one more twist.

Racz's gun fell out of his hand.

Lily tugged Helen's arm just enough to move her out of the way. Then she shoved Racz's shoulder and watched the man drop to the ground. She kept the knife in her hand; he pulled off the blade as he fell, and the wound spurted in arterial pulses for five heartbeats. Then it only oozed.

" _Mama_!" Helen sobbed.

Lily wrapped her free arm around her and held her. "You're okay," she said clearly. "You're okay."

Helen cried. Lily did not. She felt her daughter sobbing, warm and alive under one hand, and the thick warm blood of her enemy in the other. Her hand tightened around the hilt and she raised her eyes to the skyline. "At last," she whispered to the city, "my arm is complete again."

* * *

Kostmayer got to them first.

He wrapped Lily's hand with his bandana, then slid it away, taking the knife and most of the blood, and stuffed the whole mess into his pocket. He was pretty sure Helen hasn't seen any of it. She knew what had happened, of course, but knowing and seeing were two different things.

Lily wrapped both arms around her daughter. Mickey slipped behind her and cut Helen's hands free with his own knife. He gave the two of them a gentle hug, kissed Helen on the top of her head, and then kissed Lily the same way.

By then the boys were running in from both sides of the parking lot, and there was an unruly pile of family hugging. Then Sarah caught up with them and there was more.

He stepped around the puddle of blood and checked the Serb, though there wasn't much need.

Reese came out of the school, helped Dylan to his feet, and cut his hands loose. "You okay?" he asked gruffly.

The teen was crying, and whatever he answered was completely incoherent.

"You're okay," Reese told him.

Harold limped up to join them. He called the Malnois to him and clipped his leash on. Then he looked around the parking lot in mild dismay.

Mickey did his own inventory, more out of habit than any real concern. Racz dead, Misha dead, the sniper on the fourth floor probably dead. Three injured on the ground. The guy who had surrendered by the car was wearing Kostmayer's handcuffs.

Gusev limped back into the school with the rest of his guys. Kostmayer didn't bother going after him.

"I … I … I … I …" Dylan stammered.

"You've had a difficult night," Harold said calmly. "Let me drive you home."

The boy looked at him wildly. "They … he … she …"

"Yes." He took the young man firmly by the arm. "I know. But you're safe now."

"I … but …"

"I know," Harold repeated patiently. He led the boy and the dog back toward his car.

"Harold," Lily called.

He turned and looked at her over the heads of her children.

"Thank you," she said clearly.

He looked at the dead man at her feet. Then he looked at her children, safe and huddled around her. He inclined his head. "Ms. Romanov." He turned to Mickey and gave the same little head-bob. "Mr. Kostmayer." Then he left.

Mickey handed his keys over Sarah's head to Lily. "Take the kids home. We'll clean up here."

"See you there?"

"I'll be along."

The kids loosened their huddle. "Do we still have to go home?" Sarah asked. "Now that the bad guy is dead?"

"We'll see," Lily said. "But I think maybe we can stay."

"Because the threat's been eliminated?" Michael asked.

She looked over the parking lot again. "Because I remember who I am now."

"What's that mean?"

Lily smiled. "Never mind. Let's go home."

"I'm hungry," Robert complained.

"I'm _starving_ ," Sarah agreed.

"Go on to the van then. I'll be right there."

They went, arguing over who got to ride shotgun. Helen, Mickey noted without surprise, stayed right at Lily's side, with her mother's arm around her shoulder. She was pale and tired and dirty. But she was fully clothed and not bleeding. All things considered, she looked great.

And Lily – for the first time since Andrew died, Lily looked like herself again.

"You get into any more trouble," Reese began, then hesitated, "I'll know how to find you."

"We'll be okay now," Lily answered. "But thank you. For everything."

He nodded. "It's been … interesting."

She turned, with Helen still beside her, and walked toward the van.

"Mama … am I grounded?" Mickey heard the girl ask over the comm.

"Oh yes, love."

"For how long?"

"For a really long time."

Helen did not protest. "I didn't even ask if Dylan was okay."

"He's fine."

"He wasn't a bad guy, Mama."

"You're not dating him. Even when you're not grounded."

"I don't want to," Helen said. "He's cute and all but – I need somebody that can get on my level."

Reese reached up and tapped his ear, shutting off his comm. "On her level. Good luck with that."

Kostmayer grinned. He picked up Misha's gun. "Shall we?"

John got behind the dead Serb and lifted him by the armpits. Mickey moved very close and lined up the gun with the angle of the stab wound. "Wait," Reese protested. He leaned to one side, out of the path of the bullet.

"What, you afraid of a little mess?" Mickey teased. "Don't want to get that fancy suit dirty?"

"You know what dry cleaning costs in this town?"

"I don't, actually." Kostmayer pulled the trigger and let the bullet obliterate all traces of the knife wound.

A perfectly-executed killing with a knife was rare enough to attract attention, maybe raise questions. But gunshot wounds were a dime a dozen.

Reese dropped the body. Mickey wiped the gun on the lieutenant's shirt, then put it back in his hand. He surveyed the parking lot. "Looks like a gang war to me."

"Close enough," Reese agreed. "We should check the school."

"Yeah."

They walked through the building together, removing any evidence that Helen or Dylan had been there. "They're gonna stay, huh?" Reese said. "You're going to have your hands full."

Mickey shrugged. "Beats the hell out of fishing."


	18. Chapter 18

Finch wanted to just go home – or anywhere else. A hot meal, a hotter shower, a nap and a set of fresh clothes sounded like the perfect morning. Even a new Number was preferable to going to Chef McCall's place of business. But the situation would not get any better if he delayed, and it might get much, much worse. He dropped Bear off at the library, checked that is was adequately cool for the dog's comfort, and then went directly to the restaurant.

O'Phelan's did not serve breakfast, according to the sign on the door, but they did have carry out pastries and coffee available. Harold went inside and waited patiently in the five-deep line at the register. He imagined it was much longer on a weekday morning.

The cashier looked up at him, and before he could order, said, "Are you Harold?"

"I … yes."

She smiled. "Becky's expecting you." She jerked her head toward the swinging doors to the kitchen. "Go on back."

 _Expecting me_ , Finch thought uneasily. That was not a good sign.

"Thank you." Finch took a deep breath as he walked. He did not believe in psychic abilities. He emphatically did _not_. If Mrs. McCall had anticipated his visit, he already knew the answer to the question he'd come to ask.

He felt a hard ball of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. He'd had to go into that house, to help save John. But if Becky McCall remembered the context that they'd met in …

Finch squared his shoulders and marched into the kitchen.

Though it represented the mouth of hell for him, the commercial kitchen was completely ordinary. Overhead lights and stainless steel. The rich scent of yeast and cinnamon. To one side onions simmered and a pot steamed. To the other a dishwasher rattled. He knew from his research that during rush the kitchen held twelve to fifteen employees; there were only three now, the morning crew beginning to preparing for lunch, and the space seemed curiously empty.

The small brunette was at a sink furthest from the door, washing her own mixing bowls. She wore a full black apron, but no traditional chef's hat. Becky McCall was not a woman who traded on her status.

The rock in his stomach turned. Finch walked quietly to her side.

She glanced at him, smiled tightly, and returned her attention to the bowl she was washing. "Hello."

Her voice was very quiet, and Finch found himself leaning closer. "Hello. I wanted to let you know, if you haven't heard, that Lily and the children are all safe."

"I know. Thank you."

"And also, I wanted to thank you. I'm not sure how you knew our … intentions … but it if weren't for your intervention, this situation might have ended much differently."

The woman glanced at him sideways again. "I'm glad I could help." She rinsed the bowl and set it to drain, then dried her hands carefully. "But that's not why you're here, either. You want to know if I recognized you from Yvette's party."

Finch felt suddenly cold, though the kitchen was very warm. "You obviously do."

Becky nodded. "Grace Hendricks sent me a note the next day. Complimenting my catering staff and thanking me for the delicious meal. No one's ever done that before. She's really a nice lady."

"Yes." Tears pricked at Finch's eyes; he was glad for his glasses, and for the glaring lights in the room.

"Her fiancé was killed in the ferry bombing."

"I …" Finch's tongue felt thick and clumsy. "The bombing was … I was badly injured. They … were trying to kill me. They killed my friend. They would have killed Grace, and anyone else I was close to …"

"I know."

"I never wanted to hurt her. But to protect her …"

"I _know_ ," Becky repeated.

Harold made himself stop explaining. "How do you know?"

She considered for a long moment. Her cheeks went pink. She was, Finch recognized, as private a person as he was. But finally she said, "Everyone I loved as a child thinks I'm dead. I had to leave them. To survive. You had to leave for _her_ to survive."

"Yes." Finch felt a huge surge of gratitude. "Yes."

"She just got married, you know."

"I heard."

"They had a reception here in the city. I made the wedding cake."

The tears returned and he blinked them back. "I'm sure it was delicious."

"She's happy now. She was very sad for a long time, but she's happy now."

"I know." Finch could not trust his voice to say any more.

"I won't do anything, say anything, that might damage that happiness."

"Thank you." It seemed painfully inadequate.

"Kind of the least I can do."

Finch felt his breath catch. They were exactly the same words Christine Fitzgerald had said to him, the first night he found her at Chaos – and exactly the same inflection.

"Scott and I wouldn't be married if it wasn't for Lily," the chef continued. "You saved her, and Helen. And I think a lot of other people." She nodded. "Robert would approve."

"We do our best. It's not always enough."

Becky gestured behind him. There was a carry-out bag on the counter. "Cinnamon rolls. Take some for John."

"Thank you. For … everything."

She smiled gently. Her cheeks were still pink. "It's been nice to meet you. Again."

Finch bowed mildly and started out of the kitchen.

"He was glad the young bird flew away," Becky said suddenly.

Finch turned sharply. "Pardon?"

She blinked at him, apparently as surprised by her words as he was. "The man … by the window," she began tentatively. "He said he didn't know the boy, didn't recognize him. But he did."

Finch couldn't breathe.

"He always hated … to see a young bird get caught in a snare. He wanted the bird to fly away. He was glad it did."

Harold stared at her. He didn't believe. He _didn't_. But how could she possibly have known? His father, deep in the grips of dementia, sitting by the window in the nursing home, watching the birds … the last time Harold had ever seen him. No one knew. _No one knew_.

"Sorry," she said, just as suddenly. "I get these … things … sometimes. I don't usually know what they mean. I just …"

"I know what it means," Harold assured her. "And … I've very grateful to hear it. I've always wondered."

"Be glad it wasn't red cabbages," she said wryly.

"Red …"

"Nuclear devices. But that was a long time ago."

"I … oh." He didn't understand, and he was afraid to ask. "Yes." And then, "Is there anything else?"

"Well, it's not psychic," Becky said, "but in case you were wondering, Mickey is _really_ bored with fishing."

Finch grinned slowly. "That is useful to know, yes."

* * *

That afternoon, they got a single-word message from Christine Fitzgerald: _Running_.

* * *

Joss Carter made her way up the steps quietly, but of course the dog heard her. Bear came trotting out of the work room and waited for her on the landing, wagging his tail happily. "Hello, Handsome," she said, rubbing his ears.

"Hello yourself," Reese said.

Joss looked up. The former spy was standing by the gate, wearing his traditional sardonic half-smile.

"Yeah, you're lookin' okay, too," she allowed.

"Everything okay?"

"Just a social call," she assured him.

They walked together into the main room. Finch stood up behind his keyboard. "Detective. How nice to see you. Is everything alright?"

"Fine," Carter repeated. "Just stopped by for a visit."

"Hmmm. Can I offer you some tea? Or coffee, I suppose." He glanced at his watch. "Yes, it's still early enough for coffee."

"No, I'm fine." She leaned her hip on the arm of the big couch. "I wanted to let you know I'm going to be out of town for a while. Ten days. Taylor and I are going to Hawaii."

"Oh." Finch came around his desk. "On vacation?"

"Yeah. I've been promising I'd take him since he was this high." Joss held her hand out three feet over the floor. "And this might be the last chance we get, what with his new career and all."

Reese sat at the opposite end of the couch. "You're actually taking a vacation, Joss?"

"Hey, I got a ton of vacation time saved up."

"I'm not arguing that. I think it's great. It's just not like you."

"Well, now that I've got you guys on the job, my caseload is way down. Or it will be, once this heatwave breaks. I can spend some time with my son."

"But that's not the only reason," Finch observed.

Carter looked at him, and then at Reese. They were too damn good at reading her, both of them. She was annoyed. But she'd come to tell them the truth anyhow. "No. It's not."

The cat came and glided around her ankles. Joss leaned and picked her up. She grunted with the effort. "This cat weighs a ton. You're overfeeding her."

"She feeds herself," Reese said.

"She rarely touches her chow," Finch agreed.

"You must have a lot of mice."

"Not any more."

Finch settled into one of the wooden desk chairs. He clasped his hands loosely in front of him.

Reese crossed his long legs.

They both waited.

Carter put the cat down. Bear licked her eagerly, and Smokey rolled onto her back and submitted to the dog bath willingly. "Weirdos," she chided gently.

"Joss," John said.

She looked at him. His eyes were bright, serious, but also calm and supportive. She took a deep breath of the library air; old books and musty paper, against the sharp electronic smell of the computers. Hints of John's coffee over Harold's light green tea. Something very faint and medicinal, maybe flea soap on Bear.

She couldn't stall any more. "Carl Elias will be released from custody, probably on Tuesday."

Reese put both feet in the floor and sat forward, his hands clasped loosely between his knees, at the ready. "He's posting bail?"

"He'll plead guilty to most of the lesser charges against him, and the more serious counts will be dropped. He'll be released with time served."

"That's not going to happen," John announced simply.

"Yes," Joss countered, "it is. We made a deal, John."

"You and Elias made a deal?"

"Yes."

"He didn't make a deal with _me_."

"John …"

"Carl Elias tried to kill you, Detective," Finch interjected. "He kidnapped your son."

"I know."

"He had Detective Szymanski shot. He murdered a number of Mafia dons, including his own father …"

"I _know_ ," Carter repeated. "I also know that John interceded in all of those cases. Which means I can't have any of them go to trial. And we're not even going to talk about the whole John-Warren-in-Rikers issue."

Reese looked like he'd been gut-punched. "Joss …"

"John. I've thought this through. This is my choice."

"To let Elias walk free, after all he's done, because of _me_?"

"I crossed the line. I knew there'd be a price. This is the price."

"I can't." John shook his head. "I can't let you do this."

"It's not up to you."

Reese sat back, silent, his mouth set in a tight line.

"And you're not going after him," Carter added firmly.

"Sure."

"John."

"If you've reached an … arrangement … with Elias," Finch said uneasily, "why does your sudden vacation coincide with his release from custody?"

Joss smiled tightly. "The price for my cooperation with Elias' release is that he give up the remaining members of HR."

Reese looked up, a little less miserable. "What?"

"He knows who survived the HR sweep. He knows who the head is, and who all the stragglers are. He's giving them to Moss."

"Because HR would come after Elias," Harold mused, "as soon as he was released."

"He could handle them himself," Reese answered.

"This was part of the deal," Joss said firmly. "Elias walks, but HR goes down for good. And he understands that after this we're square. He steps over the line again, I will send him to prison."

John shook his head. "I hate this, Joss."

"I'm not crazy about it myself. But corrupt cops do way more to undermine the safety of this city than Elias ever could."

"The devil you know," Finch said. "I agree with Mr. Reese, Detective. This action may have consequences you have not fully contemplated."

"It probably will," she agreed. "But this is the best choice I can make right now. For all of us."

Reese rolled to his feet. "You're going to Hawaii because you think HR will come after you."

"Me and Taylor." Carter made herself stay where she was, leaning against the couch. "My mom's going to visit her sister."

"What about Fusco? If he doesn't get picked up in the sweep, HR will peg him for the snitch."

Joss opened her hands. "That's the other thing I'm here to talk to you about."

"There's a cybersecurity seminar in Washington D.C. beginning on Monday," Finch answered immediately. "I could arrange for him to be invited as a last-minute participant."

She grinned. "I knew you'd have something on deck, Harold."

"What about Lee?" John asked.

"He could take his son along. See the sights between sessions, perhaps take in a sporting event of some sort." He nodded to himself. "Yes, it can be arranged."

"Through about Thursday should cover it. They should all be in custody by then."

"I'll take care of it." Finch went back to his keyboard and sat down.

"I don't like it, Joss," Reese repeated. "Any of it."

"I know."

He paced to the window and back. "There must be some other way."

"There's not."

"It's too much. It's too much to ask. Too much for you to give up."

"Nobody asked me to do any of this," Carter argued gently. "These were my choices, and I made them with my eyes wide open. This is the way it has to be."

He returned to the window and stood looking out through the frosted glass. Joss could see the unhappiness in his posture, in the tension of his shoulders. "John," she said quietly.

Reese did not turn.

Finch simply stood up and left the room.

Joss pushed herself to her feet and walked over to stand behind Reese. Slowly, she placed her open palm on the center of his back. He tensed, then leaned back into the touch. "I'm going to Hawaii, John. I'm gonna lay on the beach and sip umbrella drinks and pretend I don't notice my son chatting up the pretty girls at the surf shack. And then I'm gonna come back and get back to work. And whatever Elias does going forward, we'll deal with it then. But HR will be gone."

John shook his head without turning. "I should have let the Russians kill him."

"That's not who you are, John."

"It's who I used to be."

She moved even closer. "You're different now."

"So are you," he answered bitterly. "The Joss Carter I first met …" He stopped, took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

Joss took a deep breath of her own. He wasn't wrong; she was far different from the straight-arrow detective that had first met the bearded vagrant in the precinct. It hurt to have him comment on how much she'd changed. She patted his back one last time and turned toward the door. "See you in a couple weeks."

She was at the sliding gate before Reese said, "Need a ride to the airport?"

Joss looked back. "I was planning to pick Taylor up, get him some dinner first."

"That'll work."

She hesitated. "You're gonna meet Taylor again."

"I think it's time. Don't you?"

Taylor hadn't seen John since he'd rescued him from Scarface. Since Elias had kidnapped him. They would need to come up with an explanation. Reese probably had one on stand-by. Logically, if Taylor was going to be working with the Ingrams and Christine Fitzgerald, he was bound to run into Reese, sooner or later.

Sooner was probably better. Just in case. She nodded. "You're buying."

"Thought we could go Dutch."

"Nope."

Reese gave her a crooked grin. "Eh, I'll expense it, then."

"Whatever works."

"See you tomorrow, Finch," John called as he joined her.

Finch reappeared in the doorway, with a convenient cup of tea steaming in his hands. "Have a safe trip, Detective."

* * *

For each of the next three days, in lieu of cat pictures, Finch received an e-mail from Christine with the same two words: _still running_.

On the fourth day, there was a picture attached, a pair of very battered and muddy sneakers with three of the kittens playing with the undone laces. The message said _done running_.

Finch called Reese in the field and passed the message on. "Three days is about right," he said thoughtfully. "Anything about coming home?"

"Not yet."

"Soon," Reese said, as if he were certain.

"Perhaps."

"Soon."

* * *

Carl Elias left Rikers an hour before Patrick Simmons was booked in.

Simmons gestured one of the corrections officers over to him. "Need you to make a call for me. I'll make it worth your while."

"I'm listening."

"Need you to call Alonzo Quinn, up in the mayor's office. Tell him …"

The CO waved impatiently. "He won't answer."

"Just tell him …"

"We booked him in twenty minutes ago."

Simmons took a deep breath. The air felt very cold. He didn't have to think about his next words. "Then call the DA. Tell him I want to make a deal."

The officer grinned. "I'll tell him. But you're gonna have to take a number."

* * *

Mickey Kostmayer heard a phone ring, distant and muffled, when he opened the back of his van. But it wasn't his ring tone and it stopped before he got his tackle box stowed, so he didn't think anything of it.

He walked around and climbed into the driver's seat. As he shut his door, the phone rang again – inside the cab.

Kostmayer froze. The phone rang a second time, from under the passenger seat.

He let out a long slow breath. He'd spent far too many years as an operative to think that there was any mistake. A phone that was not his, ringing in his vehicle, was the trigger to a bomb. Any moment he was going to be violently dead. No point in trying to get out or to run. It was already too late.

He'd always known he was going to die that way. Or with a bullet in his head.

Still, he'd had a good run.

He'd talked to his wife on the phone just before he'd left the loft. She was coming home tomorrow. Wouldn't have to change her plans much. He'd told her he loved her and missed her. He was glad he'd gotten a chance to say it one last time.

The phone rang a third time.

Kostmayer was surprised he was still alive. He looked around the vehicle. No one too nearby. The explosion would damage some vehicles, probably the outside of the buildings. Sure as hell mess up Mrs. Daughterty's fresh laundry, hanging on the line from the night before. She'd be madder than a wet hen. Nothing to be done.

The phone rang a fourth time, and then a fifth.

"Shoulda' run," Mickey said out loud. Apparently he'd had plenty of time to get clear. He wondered if it was Gusev and his crew. They weren't very professional; they might not have the code set right.

The phone rang a sixth time, and then stopped.

Kostmayer sat very still, with his hands on the steering wheel, looking out his front window at clean white sheets flapping in the wind.

He started to think he was going to live.

His pulse suddenly surged as the adrenaline caught up with his brain. He took a couple short, panting breaths.

It might still trigger when he opened the door. Or when he turned the ignition switch.

He had his own phone. He could call Lily. She could get eyes on the device, give him a description. If it was as crude as he was starting to think it was, he might be able to talk her through disarming it …

No.

Reese, then. He was an op. He probably had lots of experience …

The phone rang again. Kostmayer jumped, then swore.

No explosion. The phone rang a second time.

Swearing, he reached under the seat and grabbed the phone.

It was brand new, the latest model. Waste of money; a flip phone would have worked better as a trigger.

It rang a third time. The caller ID had a number and city location, no name. But anyone with half a brain knew how to block their number, so how …

On the fourth ring, he pressed the green button. "Hello?"

"Hey," a woman said, breathlessly. "Good, you picked up. Listen, this is really weird, but I saw your ad and … are you for real? I mean, for real for real? Because I don't have any money, so if this is some kind of scam you might as well not even waste your time …"

"Who is this?"

"Oh." The woman hesitated. "Oh, um … I mean, how do I know?"

"How do you know your name?"

"How do I know you're for real and not just some creep looking for … I don't know what. I mean, you're a verified user and all, but …"

"Slow down," Mickey said. He shook his head, hard, trying to clear he fog all that unused adrenaline had left behind. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I told you I don't have any money. Like, literally like twelve bucks, and no credit, so if you're some kind of identity thief …"

"I'm not," Mickey said.

"I … okay. The thing is … I know this is totally crazy, just calling someone up because you saw their ad online, but I … it's like you said, I really don't have anywhere else to turn, I've tried everything I could think of on my own and he's just …"

"Wait." Kostmayer closed his eyes. A new certainly settled over him. But he had to ask. " _What_ ad?"

" _Your_ ad," the woman said. "On Craig's list. Under 'other assistance'. You said you'd help people when they don't have anywhere else to turn."

"I did?"

"So do you? Or are you just some con man looking for desperate people to con some more? Because if that's what you are …"

She went on for a minute or so like that. Mickey didn't hear most of what she said. He took the brand new phone away from his ear and looked at it. It wasn't a bomb trigger. At least not the kind he'd thought it was. But it still had the power to blow up his life.

The back of the phone was slightly sticky, just in one spot. On a hunch, Kostmayer said, "Hang on a minute. I need to find something to write with." He leaned down and looked under the seat again. There was a note there, with a small piece of tape still attached. In the heat it had come loose from the phone.

On the note there was an ad number, an account name – Equalizer – and a password fifteen characters long. Beneath it said, _I recommend changing the password to something you can remember. Or simply cancel the ad, if you wish, and go back to fishing. But we really could use the help. Good luck._

It didn't have a signature, of course. It didn't need one.

He had a pretty good idea who'd bought the phone and left it for him. And a pretty good idea who'd placed the ad, too.

He didn't know where to find them. Yet.

"Son of a bitch," he said quietly.

"Are you still there?" the woman called distantly.

Mickey thought about it for a long moment. Then he brought the phone back up to his ear. "I'm here," he said. "Why don't you tell me what the problem is … and I'll see if I can help."

* * *

Shaw was very good at poker, and very good at keeping her mouth shut, and Root guessed that she was very good at watching other people, too. Root watched the woman watching her every day for more than a week before she finally pretended to crack.

"Did they ever find out," she asked, with mock casualness, about ten minutes before their daily session was to end, "what that chip was?"

"Call." Shaw shoved five M&M's into the center of the tiny table. "What chip?"

"The chip from Alicia Corwin's shoulder."

The woman smirked. "That bitch. You mean the chip _on_ her shoulder, right?"

Root smiled brightly, as if Shaw had smiled at her. " _In_ her shoulder. A computer chip. Implanted. Your boss wanted to know what it was."

Her opponent was very good at poker. The only reaction Root could read was that Shaw's disinterested seemed to grow even deeper. But that was a reaction in itself, of course. "Dunno. Nobody asked me."

"Oh." Root flipped her hair and dealt herself two more cards. "Well, I guess they didn't read you in on the whole operation."

"I don't want to know about the whole operation," Shaw answered. She showed her hand and collected the candies in the pot. "I just want to know when my part of it's over."

Root shuffled the cards and dealt again. "How's your leg healing up?"

"It's okay," Shaw answered.

They both let the subject of the chip drop. But Root was quite sure her watchers had caught the whole exchange. Three or four more days, she decided, and she'd bring it up again.

They were clever and patient, her captors. But she was more patient, and it went without saying that she was far more clever.

Finch's cell phone rang while he was walking Bear. He checked the screen as he walked. "Hello, Will."

"Uncle Harold. You busy?"

"Just walking the dog." Harold navigated around a cluster of tourists. "How are you?"

"Good. Listen, um, are you busy tonight?"

"Not that I know of." He eyeballed a pay phone as they walked past, but it did not ring. "Why?"

"Julie's parents are in town. We're having dinner with them. I know it's really short notice, but can you come?"

"Uhhhh …"

"Mom's coming, too. We haven't told them about the baby yet. I mean, we told Mom, but not Julie's parents."

"I'm sure they'll be very happy, Will."

"I know. It's just … you know how they are."

"Overbearing," Finch supplied.

"Yeah, that."

It was curious, Harold thought, that he and Olivia had become the allied adults in the young couple's lives, the bulwark of rationality against the Carson's judgmental and critical ways. "I'll be there," he promised.

"Thank you," Will breathed, with heartfelt relief.

"Tell me when and where."

"I will as soon as I know. Thank you so much."

Harold smiled as he clicked his phone off.

It rang again immediately.

This time the caller ID said _Ireland_.

For days they'd received nothing but kitten pictures from Christine.

Harold moved to the side of the building, out of the way of other pedestrians. "Good morning," he answered, surprised and happy, fighting to keep his voice from sounding too eager.

"Hi." Christine's voice was quite small, though that might have been just a bad connection.

He tried to resist the question, and failed. "Are you coming home?"

"I think so." He turned his body away from the traffic noise, but her tone was still soft and – uncertain.

"Good."

"But listen …"

"What's wrong, Christine?"

There was a pause long enough to make him wonder if the call had dropped. "Do you remember the night in the pizza shop?" she finally asked.

Finch reached down and rubbed Bear's ears. He knew it was a comfort measure, not for the dog but for himself. Did he remember? The glassy-eyed junkie, the skeletal young hacker who was all but dying before his eyes? "I remember."

"Do you remember what was in my backpack? The things I asked you to return? Specifically?"

He looked around sharply. She was talking in a very private code, as if she thought they were being watched. He saw the traffic camera on the pole across the street. Of course they were being watched. "Yes."

"Go find them. At your … building. And then … let me know if you want me to come home or just stay here."

"Christine …"

"Please. Whatever you decide … just let me know." The call went dead.

With a sick dread in his heart, Finch hurried back to the library.

* * *

Christine had had two books, that night in the pizza shop. _Ender's Game_ and _Lord of the Flies_. Mass market softcover editions, checked out of the NYPL. She'd asked Harold to have someone return them for her.

Of course there were copies on the shelves in his now-shuttered library. They were easy enough to locate.

There was a fine layer of dust on the shelf in front of the first one. But the whole shelf was much less dusty than the ones around it. She'd cleaned off the whole thing to make the particular book less obvious. That must have been weeks ago. Or months.

He held _Lord of the Flies_ in his hand thoughtfully. She'd left him something here, some message. Something that frightened her, and something that she'd taken great pains to conceal. Only the two of them would have known which books to look for. He ruffled through the pages, expecting to find a note or a notched page, underlined words, something. Nothing. He held the book by the spine and shook it upside down. Still nothing. But the spine didn't open quite right. It had been probably been re-glued, badly. He held it closer and examined it.

As expected, the spine had been glued, at both ends. But in the center … he ran his thumb along it to be sure. Yes, there, just in the center, a tiny square bump.

Not a page, then, but an SD card.

He quickly located the second book and carried both upstairs to his desk. Then be got out a slender matte knife and opened the spines. There was a tiny data card hidden in each of them. He checked closely before he set the books aside; there was nothing more.

He found an adapter and plugged one of them into his computer.

The file that came up was, of course, encrypted.

"Clever girl," Finch murmured, annoyed but not surprised. "My clever girl."

He saved it, then removed the data card and replaced it with the second one. It contained only the encryption key.

Bear nuzzled at his leg. Finch rubbed his ears again. Oh, yes, comfort measure. He became aware that he was holding his breath. What had she found, and why was she so troubled by it? Why had she hidden it instead of giving it to him right away? And why was she showing it to him now?

The file opened for him. It wasn't a program, just text. Many pages of text. Short entries, just a paragraph or two each, separated by dates.

Before he'd finished the first entry, he knew what it was and who'd written it. "Oh, Nathan," he breathed. "Damn it, Nathan, what did you do?"

By the time he got to the bottom of the first page, he also knew where Christine had gotten them. The hidden data on the music disks. The ones he'd told her to go ahead and decrypt. The ones he'd been sure would be an embarrassingly detailed record of Nathan's various romantic conquests. Instead it was a record of the rise of IFT, Nathan's day-to-day notes and observations. Nathan's conquests, yes, personal and professional.

But so much of it was about _Harold_ …

He could read it all, and he would, but it didn't matter. The implication was clear. Christine knew all that Nathan had known about the Machine, which was, for all practical purposes, everything. And more to the point, she knew everything that Nathan had known about _him_. All the way back to their first days at MIT. The pranks, the failures, the successes. The dreams. The confidences.

Some of it she'd already known. Some he never would have told her. But she'd found it. Everything.

 _Everything._

His mind recoiled from the idea. He felt sick.

Bear whined and licked his hand.

Harold took a deep breath. He shook himself, patted the dog again. "It's alright, Bear. It's alright." Then he reached for his phone.

He should take a few minutes. Or hours. He should read through the rest of the journal; he should consider all the implications. But he didn't. He couldn't.

She knew everything. She knew how he'd likely feel about her knowing. But she'd admitted that she knew anyhow. And she'd offered to stay away, to leave her life permanently behind and start again half-way around the world, if he couldn't tolerate the idea of her knowing so much.

He was a really private person. He'd told Reese that. He hadn't had to tell Christine. She knew. She knew exactly what the impact of this information would be on him – and she'd told him anyhow. Given him an easy opportunity to simply exile her, to never see her face-to-face again, to never …

He couldn't call her. He didn't trust his voice. Instead, he typed in a text.

IF YOU'RE NOT ON THAT PLANE TONIGHT

I'M COMING TO BRING YOU HOME MYSELF.

The minute he hit 'send' his stomach began to uncoil.

 _She knows everything_ , Finch told himself, _and so logically the best place for her is right beside me._

It was a rationalization. He knew it was a lie. The best place for her was far, far away. Safely far away. But he couldn't do it. Not now.

If she would return, willingly, knowing everything she knew …

He could not wait to see her again.

* * *

The End


End file.
